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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27218044">just, fine.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/muppetstiefel/pseuds/muppetstiefel'>muppetstiefel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(sort of), Break Up Talk, Car Accidents, Childhood Sweethearts, Established Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, F/M, First Love, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Minor Injuries, Post-Break Up, References to DPD, References to Depression, Secret Relationship, Stozier-Centric, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, so many movie references</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:54:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>28,099</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27218044</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/muppetstiefel/pseuds/muppetstiefel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"One of the girls catches Stan’s eye and smiles apologetically and he can feel her sympathy. She thinks this is a break up, that his asshole boyfriend is dumping him in the middle of the restaurant. Stan wonders if he can convey through smiles that they broke up months ago, that this is just the final nail in a long constructed coffin. </p>
<p>“Hey,” Richie says, a little breathy but casual. He’s red in the face, like he has just been for a run, but he’s smiling. God, Stan has missed that smile, the way it makes his eyes crinkle and cheeks fold."</p>
<p>(Richie and Stan meet after their break up &amp; try to right some of the wrongs.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>just, fine.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stan gets to the restaurant a good ten minutes early.</p>
<p>He’s always been precise about these things due to his discomfort in being late so he’d given himself a thirty-minute margin to get from Bill’s – where he’s crashing for the weekend – to the restaurant. He tells himself it’s in case he’s forgotten New York in the months since he left but he knows that isn’t possible. The city is too well scored on his heart.</p>
<p>Still, it’s been a while, so he had left earlier than reasonable and headed to the restaurant. Even with taking the scenic route he is here ten minutes early. From the outside the restaurant looks busy, a few empty tables scattered outside despite the heat of early May that seems to be encompassing the city. Stan hates the heat, especially in New York; the way it bakes everything, the way it festers, damp and cloying. He hopes there’s an empty table inside away from the murkiness of the city in spring.</p>
<p>The restaurant looks nice – a mid-budget place, perfect for six month anniversaries, catch up dinners with old friends and, of course, break ups. Stan tries not to think too hard about the fact that this is going to be a break up in the official sense, even if he was unceremoniously dumped some months earlier. Instead he hesitates in the doorway, then pushes inside towards the reservation desk.</p>
<p>His mouth sticks on the words “reservation under Tozier,” finding it suddenly hilarious in a morbid sort of way. Stan was always the one to book the table, to plan the dates and to haul them both to the restaurant on time, or at least his usual five minutes early. Richie was always late to everything, even if set off with enough time, like he had some sort of useless power that was only mildly annoying.</p>
<p>The hostess shows Stan to their table. He is reassured in the fact that he is the first one there, that California hasn’t changed Richie’s genetic code in a way that it should never be messed with. He slips into a seat and picks the menu up idly, not really reading it. His eyes flit to the door every few seconds, unwilling to be caught unawares by Richie’s arrival. At the table next to him a young woman reaches out and takes the hand of the other across the table from her. Her fingertips brush her dates knuckles softly, and the other girl emits a breathy laugh. Stan looks away, pulling at the collar of the shirt he borrowed from Ben. It’s too loose on him, material where Ben has muscle but Stan hadn’t brought enough for the entire weekend and it was this or an old t-shirt from a softball tournament in college.</p>
<p>He stares blankly at the menu again, then blinks up and there is Richie.</p>
<p>He’s already striding towards the table, the bulk of a bag slung over one shoulder. He lifts a hand and waves to Stan with a jovial nature that makes him shrink away a little. He looks out of place in the cramped Italian, weaving through tables of couples and birthday dinners. He’s wearing shorts, Stan realises, which are splitting at the crotch, and socks with sandals. Stan shifts uncomfortably in his borrowed shirt and slacks, suddenly feeling ridiculous opposite a man who looks like he’s just been for a run.</p>
<p>He drops the bag first, and then drops himself into a chair. The couple on the next table are looking at them now over the rims of their martini glasses. One of the girls catches Stan’s eye and smiles apologetically and he can feel her sympathy. She thinks this is a break up, that his asshole boyfriend is dumping him in the middle of the restaurant. Stan wonders if he can convey through smiles that they broke up months ago, that this is just the final nail in a long constructed coffin.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Richie says, a little breathy but casual. He’s red in the face, like he <em>has</em> just been for a run, but he’s smiling. God, Stan has missed that smile, the way it makes his eyes crinkle and cheeks fold.</p>
<p>Stan can’t make himself say hello back.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Stan has never been good at arguments.</p>
<p>He’s good at seething, and fantastic at holding grudges, and once Richie had joked that he has a degree in in passive aggression, but he’s never been good at arguments. Truthfully, confrontation scares him. He had to take a debate class in college and had nearly cried after being made to debate with another student there who was taking the class far too seriously.</p>
<p>Still, he had thought that he would be able to muster some fight if he was ever in the need for it. instead he watches the door close with a soft thump and realises he hadn’t even tried to stop Richie as he had left.</p>
<p>It had all happened so quickly, really. One minute he was washing their dinner plates in the sink and the next Richie was hauling two carry on suitcases out from their bedroom, standing with them by the door, waiting for Stan to notice him. He hadn’t at first, too busy humming under his breath, hands submerged in hot soapy water.</p>
<p>He stares at the door, expecting Richie to walk back in, expecting some reprise. A chance to shout and scream, maybe, to argue like he should have. He doesn’t walk back in, even when Stan sinks to the ground, soapy plate still gripped in his hands, back digging against the cabinets.</p>
<p>Richie doesn’t come back. The first feeling that hits Stan after the numbness fades is relief. The door has barely even closed – not slammed, but gently pulled to – before Stan is letting out this shaky breath and sinking to the floor. He doesn’t feel the sadness he knows he should. Instead he feels a sickening relief that one of them did something. There’s reassurance in knowing they aren’t both going to exist in permanent limbo forever.</p>
<p>Because he wants to be surprised, and he wants to be sad, but instead all he feels is this relief, deep inside that makes him mad with himself.</p>
<p>Relief, he supposes, that he hadn’t had to be the one to pull the trigger.</p>
<p>He reaches for his phone, wondering numbly whether he should at least try and call Richie. Instead he slips it safely away in his pocket and goes to bed.</p>
<p>He can’t cry that night, so instead he pours himself a glass of water, hoping to coax the tears out. He sets it on the nightstand, turns his phone off, and tries to read. His hand gravitates to the book already waiting at the side of the bed, some sci-fi Richie had bought him one birthday. He’d been meaning to read it. He’d never read it.</p>
<p>Now he picks it up. It’s pretty good, actually. Not his usual style, but engaging enough. He knows he should be distracted, anxious and sad, but all he feels is empty. Empty, and that same shaky relief he had when Richie said that he was leaving.</p>
<p>“I have to,” he’d said, eyes big and sad behind his glasses. So Un-Richie. “Neither of us are happy.”</p>
<p><em>I have to</em> – Stan mulls it over. What he means is I have to, because you won’t. They both know this.</p>
<p>“This is just the way things have to be. For now,” Richie’s voice had stuck on be, like he meant it to be the end of the sentence. The for now was just to make Stan feel better. He knows this.</p>
<p>Because unless Stan and Richie suddenly become different people, this is just the way things have to be.</p>
<p>Stan sets the book down after chapter three, rolls over and goes to sleep without any trouble.</p>
<p>His body wakes him at five in the morning with the sudden urge to be sick.</p>
<p>He bends over the toilet bowl and empties his stomach. The retching makes him feel sicker and sicker, until he’s just throwing up empty bile which tears at his throat. He thinks of the glass on his bedside table, thinks of hollering for Richie to bring it to him. Then he remembers Richie isn’t here anymore and his stomach clenches again.</p>
<p>He gets a fresh glass of water from the kitchen. Skirts around doing the dishes piled in the sink. They reek of garlic, even though Richie knows Stan can’t eat garlic, and the dark red sauce on the plate makes Stan’s nose wrinkle. If Richie were here he still wouldn’t do the dishes. Stan picks one up absentmindedly, then sets it down again.</p>
<p>It’s a Thursday, and if he’s to call out of work he needs to switch his phone on again. Nothing seems less appealing, but there’s no one else here to do it for him now. Once when Stan had food poisoning Richie had called his work and made the excuses for him. Richie’s not here to do that now.</p>
<p>There are no missed calls from Richie, just promotional emails from their gym and a text from a co-worker. Stan clicks on it. It’s a cheery message asking for confirmation if him and Richie are planning on attending tapas night.</p>
<p>He’s not sure what does it, but that’s what makes Stan cry. He types an email to his boss through the tears and hits send without proof reading. All he wants is to climb back into bed, but all he can think of is Richie, how his smell will still be on the sheets, how he used to rub his feet against Stan’s legs to annoy him, how sickeningly domestic they had become. How quickly things had fallen apart, through no fault of anyone, yet how he still feels this unusual anger at Richie for leaving.</p>
<p>
  <em>“It’s just the way things have to be, Stan. I’m so sorry. We can talk about it later.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“What is there left to talk about? Your mind’s already made up.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“So is yours.”</em>
</p>
<p>Stan climbs into the shower and tries not to think of the way Richie had said that.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“Have you been waiting long?” Richie asks as he sits down. The chair creeks a little under his weight. He’s red in the face, breathless, but he’s smiling too, this giddy sort of smile that Stan remembers. It feels like years since Richie has smiled at him like that.</p>
<p>“No, no,” Stan tries to sound casual but he feels out of his depth. Richie is staring at him, Richie is smiling at him, looking happy when Stan’s heart is breaking more every minute. If I stop thinking about it too hard, Stan thinks, then I can trick my brain into thinking this is a date, or an anniversary, or a quick dinner in a foreign airport as they wait for a plane to take them to <em>their</em> home.</p>
<p>Stan can’t stop thinking, though. The heartbreak is too palpable.</p>
<p>“The cab – he took a different route, I tried to tell him.”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about it,” he tries to look at the menu instead but the words swim out of his focus. Richie shifts in his chair and it makes an odd sort of groan, wooden leg grinding against the floor.</p>
<p>“I said to him ‘there’s a turning right there, dude’ but he didn’t listen. Barrelled us straight into traffic. I think he thought I was a gullible LA tourist. I mean, he did pick me up from the airport, and I did keep staring out the window like Kevin in Home Alone, you know, when he’s in the cab looking around the city for the first time?”</p>
<p>That explains the breathing, and the bag, and the gym-like clothing. Stan feels a little less foolish. He even manages a small smile. Richie returns it with a much bigger grin and Stan feels foolish again, awkward and uncomfortable and heartbroken. How is Richie so happy? How does he not feel like his lungs are being ripped from his chest every time he breathes?</p>
<p>“You came straight from the airport?” Stan says, numbly setting the menu back down on the table. “We can – we can do this some other time, if you want, you must be tired.”</p>
<p>Richie waves him off. “Nah, not me, you know how it is – planes get me pumped.”</p>
<p>Stan doesn’t know. They never even took a holiday together, unless you count boy scouts or that one time Stan’s car broke down on the drive back to Maine and they had to stop over in a motel together. Stan’s known Richie for years and there is so much he still doesn’t know. So much he’ll never know.</p>
<p>“Really, we can reschedule, it’s no big deal,” Stan insists. The alarm bells are ringing in his head and he’s eager to get out. This was all a big mistake; that’s what he’ll say to Bill when he gets back to his apartment. It’s too soon. Richie will understand if he gets up and bolts.</p>
<p>“I mean, I’m already here, so,” Richie says, Stan’s escape route closing up for good as the other man reaches forward to grab the menu. He squints at it through his glasses, and Stan wonders if he ever did go for his eye exam.</p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s true,” he picks up his menu too and tries to actually read it this time. Nothing sounds less appealing than food right now but he doesn’t want Richie to know he’s still not eating properly when Richie is seemingly fine. Maybe I’ll get the shrimp, Stan thinks. Richie hates sea food.</p>
<p>“Plus Mike mentioned you were only in the city till tomorrow?” Richie peers at Stan over the top of his menu.</p>
<p>“You’ve been talking to Mike?” Stan isn’t sure why it surprises him. Mike and Richie are friends, and have been since they met in the first year of high school. Still it makes him feel a little sore. Mike is his best friend. Stan hasn’t been going to Eddie for advice or a catch up. He had assumed that best friends would be off-bounds.</p>
<p>Richie shrugs. “Well, you know, just the general chit chat.  We were just chit chatting and he just mentioned – he mentioned you came up to help him pack. It just sort of… came up organically. You know, as it does. Did I miss the memo? Did you get Mike in the divorce?”</p>
<p>It’s a challenge. Stan knows it’s foolish to be upset that Richie talks to their mutual friends, and Richie knows he can’t argue against it.</p>
<p>“What?” Stan says, crooking an eyebrow, just how he used to whenever Richie would piss him off. It must work, because Richie blinks away from him, chuckling a little.</p>
<p>“Sorry, sorry, bad joke, I’m just nervous and honestly a little sweaty.”</p>
<p>“I don’t remember signing any divorce papers,” Stan can’t stop the small smirk which presses to his lips. He’s missed this – he’s missed Richie. No one else challenges him the way he does. No one else understands the way his brain ticks just from a quirk of his lips.</p>
<p>“What – oh, you’re joking,” Richie chuckles again, less tensed this time, a breathy laugh which is light in the heaviness of the restaurant.</p>
<p>“Yes. I am.”</p>
<p>“You’re making a joke? I thought that was my coping mechanism.”</p>
<p>“I won your humour in our custody battle.”</p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. You get it on the weekends and every other Wednesday.”</p>
<p>“Damn. That’s gonna make my job really hard,” Richie leans back on his chair, scratching at his head. He looks out of place in the restaurant, and yet he belongs to it with an ease that Stan admires. It’s hard to believe this is the same Richie who cried when he left home, the same Richie who refused to go to prom and who used to kiss Stan in secret.</p>
<p>“They’ll probably fire you,” Stan says with mock-pity.</p>
<p>“Then I’ll have to move back to New York.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Once Stan had thought he’d do anything for Richie.</p>
<p>When they were only nine Richie had dared him to eat a worm. It was a cruel joke, but Stan had done it, even when Bill had said “you don’t have to do that, Stan.” After he had stuck his tongue out at Richie, and had been flipped off in return. Richie had just learnt what flipping off was. He did it a lot.</p>
<p>Later, when Bill had asked him why he’d done it, Stan had said it was to prove Richie wrong.</p>
<p>“He always thinks I’m too sissy to stand up to him,” Stan had told Bill, chin tilted up proudly. “I proved him wrong.”</p>
<p>When he got home he’d cried, and tried to scrub at his tongue with soap. The next day he marched straight up to Richie and dared him to eat a live fly.</p>
<p>He always thought he’d do anything Richie asked of him, but he never told anyone this. Maybe they noticed that Richie was the only one who could get him to agree to something reckless, that Richie was the only one who could climb through his bedroom window and get away with it. Maybe they noticed, somewhere around the hundredth time, that if Richie said jump Stan would say “how high?”</p>
<p>He told himself it was pride for a long time. He’d do anything Richie dared him to because he wanted to prove that he could keep up with the infamous Tozier. He told himself he only kissed Richie because if he didn’t then they wouldn’t be equals anymore.</p>
<p>When did he stop believing that? When did he realise that he kissed Richie because he liked it? When did he realise that if Richie asked him to do anything, he would?</p>
<p>Maybe when it stopped. You don’t notice something commonplace until it’s gone.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>He thinks about calling his mother at first. He’s not sure why. They’re not close, and he doesn’t particularly want to talk to her, but it feels like the right thing. He hovers over the call button for a few minutes before sliding the phone back into a drawer and promptly ignoring it. He has three missed calls from Mike and a dozen texts from both Ben and Bev. There was a solitary text from Bill which was vague and told him not to come over, which means Richie is crashing there. Nothing from Eddie, but then he doesn’t usually text at work.</p>
<p>Halfway through the day Stan starts to regret not going to work. Other than bone-crushingly sad, he feels fine. Complacent, mainly, kicking around the empty apartment. He starts to pack his things up into the stack of boxes Richie had left by the door, then realises about halfway through that he doesn’t know why he’s packing. It’s not like he’s got anywhere to go anymore. Up until yesterday he had been all set to move to California. Now he doesn’t know where he’s going. Out of New York, that’s for sure. Away.</p>
<p>Just not with Richie.</p>
<p>He hadn’t even looked angry when he found the emails. He was calm, eerily so, standing there with the laptop in his arms.</p>
<p>“You should take the job, Stanley,” he had said calmly. Stan’s throat had closed up at those words, the quietness of them. He reached out to prise the laptop from Richie’s hands. He had succeeded in closing the lid halfway.</p>
<p>“The job is in Kingsland.”</p>
<p>“I think you should take the job.”</p>
<p>“We’ve talked about this,” his voice calm and even too. “The job is in Kingsland. Your job is in LA. I’m coming to LA with you.”</p>
<p>They had talked about it. Extensively so. Everyone had been so thrilled when Richie got offered the slot writing for a new comedy show all the way out in Hollywood. Stan hadn’t even wanted to tell him about the Kingsland position, but he had, and he’d told him he wasn’t taking it too. He was going to LA with Richie. He just hadn’t had the heart to tell the Kingsland boss yet.</p>
<p>Richie surveyed him, chin jutted up a little, shirt half tucked into his trousers, pasta sauce still sticking to the corner of his mouth. He looked so delicate. Stan had reached out and brushed his fingers against his neck, something in him screaming that it was the last time he was going to have the chance, the last time he was going to have the right.</p>
<p>Richie heaved a sigh. “Stan, we need to talk.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“What did you think?” Richie asks the second they’re outside the theatre. They were two of only five people in the screening and the rest had bee-lined for the exit as soon as the credits had started to role. Richie had insisted that they stay until the very end, which means they’re now relying on the last bus to get them back to their flat.</p>
<p>A bus that is now ten minutes overdue.</p>
<p>“Hm?” Stan hums, straining a little to look down the road. There’s no sign of the late bus, or even any other people. That’s what you get, he supposes, for going to a 2AM screening.</p>
<p>“Of the movie,” Richie prompts again. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets and when he breathes it looks like he’s blowing out smoke.</p>
<p>“Honestly? I hated it.”</p>
<p>Richie huffs out a laugh. “Of course you did,” he says, with an emphasis on <em>you</em> that makes Stan frown.</p>
<p>“What is that supposed to mean?” he says sharply, adjusting his scarf so it covers his chin. The weather is biting even for early November. He doesn’t know how Richie can be out without even a winter jacket.</p>
<p>“It means you hate fun. You hate people having fun and being stupid.”</p>
<p>“No, I don’t. I like you, don’t I?”</p>
<p>“I’m the exception that proves the rule.”</p>
<p>“Oh, sure.”</p>
<p>Stan wants to protest further but he’s too cold and tired. He’s got to get up for class in four hours, why did he even agree to a late night showing of a movie he knew he wouldn’t like?</p>
<p>“Why did you hate it?” Richie tries again, even though Stan would be content to wait for the bus in silence. The movie is still reeling in his head, loud and brash, and he knows he’s going to need a cup of night tea to even try and sleep tonight.</p>
<p>“Okay, I didn’t hate it, maybe hate was too strong a word.”</p>
<p>“Well what did you strongly dislike about it then?” Richie rounds in front of him. “Come on, you took a film class last semester, you can tell me.”</p>
<p>“It didn’t make me laugh.”</p>
<p>“Not once?”</p>
<p>“No, it didn’t make me laugh at all,” he affirms with a shrug.</p>
<p>“Bullshit!” Richie protests, pointing his finger accusingly. Stan is too tired for this shit. “I saw you laughing!”</p>
<p>“I was laughing at you,” he says without really thinking.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“You were laughing and – shut the fuck up.”</p>
<p>Richie has a strange look on his face, a sort of smirk that makes Stan feel uncomfortable in his own skin.</p>
<p>“I didn’t say anything!”</p>
<p>“You had that look on your face!”</p>
<p>“So you’re saying that… You were laughing because I was laughing?”</p>
<p>“Oh fuck off, it wasn’t like that,” Stan side-steps him and looks down the street again. No sign of the bus, but he keeps looking, just so he doesn’t have to look back at Richie.</p>
<p>“I think it’s sweet.”</p>
<p>“Where is this bus?” he asks aloud, mainly to himself. “Should we just get a taxi?”</p>
<p>“Nah, it’ll be here soon,” Richie waves his suggestion off. Stan keeps peering after the non-existent bus, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and cursing himself for misplacing his gloves. He’s sure he lent them to Richie last week but he insists otherwise. It’s no big deal. Stan can just buy new gloves. And he <em>is</em> wearing Richie’s hat – clothes sharing has been common place for them recently, he thinks, self-consciously reaching up and tugging the hat further onto his head.</p>
<p>“Bill asked me something interesting the other day,” Richie says suddenly.</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“He asked if we were dating.”</p>
<p>Richie’s voice is even, giving away nothing. Stan glances at him out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t look humoured by the question, or affronted, just neutral, like the two of them dating would be the least eventful thing to happen this year.</p>
<p>“And what did you say?” Stan asks carefully, working hard to keep his voice measured too.</p>
<p>“I said he should ask you,” he says. Like Stan has anymore idea than him. He doesn’t. He lives with Richie – he sleeps in Richie’s bed every night – yet when people in his classes ask who it is waiting to take him to lunch he always says ‘Oh, that’s Richie. He’s an old friend.’</p>
<p> “Remember when you were in love with him?”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t in love with him,” Stan says irritably. Why can’t Richie be serious, even for a second?</p>
<p>“There’s nothing to be ashamed of Stanley, he’s a very pretty boy. He’s exactly your type.”</p>
<p>He’s not, Stan thinks.</p>
<p>“How do you know what my type is?”</p>
<p>“I’ve seen your search history. You wank off to some dirty stuff. Never knew you had an Oedipus complex. Or a foot fetish.”</p>
<p>He rolls his eyes so hard they almost circle into the back of his head and brushes past Richie. “I’m going to call a cab.”</p>
<p>“Just leave it, the bus will be here soon,” Richie’s voice sounds an awful lot like pleading, so Stan put his phone away. “I don’t really know how to do this. I feel like everyone else got a manual on this shit in grade school and I was ill that day. I just don’t – I want things to stay the way they are now forever. I think if you started dating someone it would kill me, Stanley. I’ve thought that for a very long time. I was so upset when you asked Patty to prom because I – I had this idea that we’d go together. Stag.”</p>
<p>“You weren’t even there,” Stan points out, trying not to think too hard of Richie being jealous. “You were at college.”</p>
<p>“If I could go back in time I would,” Richie ignores him and carries on with his little speech. It sounds rehearsed to Stan, which just makes it more endearing. “And I’d ask you to go with me, and buy matching suits and – shit, where was I going with this?”</p>
<p>Stan blinks at him “Are you asking me to go out with you?”</p>
<p>“I guess I am…” Richie replies with a nervous chuckle. “What do you say?”</p>
<p>“You could take me to dinner first?”</p>
<p>“I just took you to a movie. Is that enough?”</p>
<p>Stan pretends to ponder on it, even though he’s already grinning so hard his face could crack in two. Richie is grinning back at him, and if it were anyone else Stan would reach out and kiss them, but the moment already feels perfect. If he moves an inch it could crack, and he doesn’t want to risk it.</p>
<p>“Yeah. Okay. Sure.”</p>
<p>“Cool.” Richie replies with a breathless little laugh. His hand hangs limp by his side and Stan reaches out and grabs it, lacing their fingers together. He squeezes tightly, and looks away.</p>
<p>“Shit, this bus isn’t coming. I’m calling a cab.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“How’s the job?” Richie asks after the appetisers arrive. There’s plates and plates of them, covering every inch of the table, wedged between the jug of tap water Stan had ordered and the pint of Guinness that Richie had chosen, insisting that he’s ‘half Irish and can handle the taste’, despite that fact that both Richie’s parents were born and raised in Derry. Stan picks half-heartedly at a lightly battered prawn in front of him whilst Richie tears off some focaccia.</p>
<p>“You know,” Stan answers with a shrug. Boring, he thinks, and dull. He settles on “Southern.”</p>
<p>Richie nods, humming thoughtfully around a mouthful of bread. “And Georgia?”</p>
<p>“It’s – it’s nice,” Stan says, for a lack of better words. Georgia is more than nice but he’s not sure he’s been able to enjoy it properly, with his mind still in New York, and a little bit in California. “My place – it’s just a temporary lease from the company, but it’s right by the beach. I can go for a walk on it whenever, just walk off my porch and there it is. I hadn’t realised how much I’ve missed the sea.”</p>
<p>He hadn’t meant to say all that. He thought Richie would stop him but he didn’t. Instead he is carefully considering Stan across the table, slowly picking apart pieces of the bread between his fingertips. He doesn’t take his eyes of Stan.</p>
<p>“It’s a little lonely though. If we’re being honest. The house is a little too big for one person,” Stan says. When he’s with Richie, words come out like water gushing from a faucet.</p>
<p>“When are we ever not being honest with each other?” Richie asks when he realises Stan isn’t going to fill any more of the silence.</p>
<p>Most of our lives, Stan wants to say.</p>
<p>“What about you?” Stan says instead, picking up the prawn and peeling back more of the thin batter. “How’s California?”</p>
<p>Richie sets his bread back down, finger shapes indented against the dough. When he speaks there’s a laugh in his voice, a light-hearted one that sounds nothing like mocking. “Different. It’s a different kind of busy to New York. There’s more space for everyone to be busy separately. I can imagine it would be lonely if I weren’t so busy. Maybe that’s why everyone always keeps busy.”</p>
<p>“Do you remember moving from Derry to New York? The biggest city we’d been to before that was Portland,” Stan smiles tightly at the idea of their backyard kingdom by the quarry, how vast it had seemed then. Everything had seemed giant when they were younger.</p>
<p>“I went to Augusta once for a holiday,” Richie says lightly, but Stan knows he understands.</p>
<p>“Do you still miss it?” Stan thinks of Derry in the summer, the rotting smell of the Crown Imperial flowers when wet. He thinks of the scuffing of shoes on linoleum tile in the bowling alley, and the road off Jackson where the gravel gave way into mud and the city melded into the night.</p>
<p>“New York?” Richie says instead. Stan doesn’t correct him. “I miss the people in it more. It’s nice to be back though. New York is like chocolate – fucking delicious, but makes you sick if you have too much of it. I prefer it in small doses.”</p>
<p>“That sounds like a tourist talking. Didn’t take long for you to acclimatise?”</p>
<p>“I was born for LA, Stanley. The sea, the sun-”</p>
<p>“You burn just looking at the weather forecast,” he says with a wry smile but Richie barely notices him.</p>
<p>“When I’m there, I feel like it’s been waiting for me. God, that’s fucking cringy. Do you know what I mean, though? When I’m in LA, when I’m writing or on stage I feel like – like some part of me that was dormant is waking up. Do you feel it too? In Georgia?”</p>
<p>“I felt it with you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“Stanley? Are you even listening to me?” Richie’s voice crackles through Stan’s fragile laptop speaker. His curtains are still open and a small strip of daylight cracks down the centre, almost splitting Richie’s head in two.</p>
<p>Stan isn’t listening, not really, even though this is the first time he’s been able to skype Richie in weeks without one of them being too busy. The truth is he’s distracted by calculus homework due tomorrow. He doesn’t want to tell Richie this – the last time he told Richie he was too tired to talk he’d hung up on him and said they could talk tomorrow instead. They ended up not speaking for a week and a half. Stan is adamant that isn’t going to happen again.</p>
<p>“Yes, I’m listening.”</p>
<p>Stan looks away from the open revision booklet on his lap and squints at the laptop screen. On the other side Richie sits in his NYU dorm room. He’s sat on his bed, webcam angled in a way that Stan can’t see the mess surrounding him. He can guess at it. An unmade bed, dirty dishes scattered around and half buried schoolwork burrowed in the sheets.</p>
<p>“What was I talking about then?” Richie levels.</p>
<p>Stan could attempt a guess but he realises that he isn’t even sure what it is Richie is into these days. Out in New York his interests change daily – he joined a Star Wars club with Mike at the beginning of the term, only to pick up skateboarding the next week, before attempting to learn Scandinavian. It’s exhausting keeping up with him, even with the constant texts to Mike and Bill, and snapchat story updates from Bev. Not that Stan has watched any of those recently. It all feels a little too painful whilst he’s still studying for European Geography tests in study hall and spending his weekends alone in his bedroom.</p>
<p>His delayed silence gives him away and Richie smirks a little. If Stan were in New York with him he would give him a shove. Instead he settles on scowling through the camera.</p>
<p>“What’s got you so distracted?” Stan holds his booklet up to the screen and Richie nods in agreement. “Calculus. It’s a bitch. I thought you were a child prodigy when it came to math?”</p>
<p>Stan doesn’t want to tell Richie that he hasn’t been able to study much recently, that the numbers keep getting away from him and none of it will stay still. He has so much time to study – so much time to study and no friends, unless you count Patty who he only hangs around with because she knew Bill and Richie and everyone once upon a time – but he still can’t. Instead he spends his time in the public library, or just walking Derry, and telling his mom all about the football games he invented when he gets home.</p>
<p>“Stan?” Richie shifts his laptop screen. The image is jittering and pixelated but it’s still Richie. He feels so close through the screen. Stan wishes he could reach out and touch his jawline, or feel the fabric of his shirt, but he knows all he will feel is the cold, unforgiving screen of the family laptop. “You okay?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he reaches up to rub at his eyes. “Just tired.”</p>
<p>It’s true. He hasn’t really been sleeping. He hasn’t been doing much of anything – he’s gotten good at existing, only living for the few times a month he can see Richie’s face through the screen. He wonders what Richie would do if he told him this. Wonders whether Richie would pointedly bring up the girl he’s been seeing like he didn’t pull on Stan’s hair the last time they had sex during the winter break.</p>
<p>“You should get some sleep,” Richie is already reaching up to close the laptop screen, like Stan is a child he’s putting to bed. His night’s just beginning really – Richie will be going out to another party, or bar, whilst Stan spends his nights laying atop his neatly pressed sheets and watching how the darkness grows. “I’ll talk to you later, Stanley.”</p>
<p>“Wait,” Stan says, and Richie pauses with his screen tilted, ready to snap shut. Stan grips the math booklet until he feels the paper slice into his fingers. “Will you help me with this booklet? I keep trying but I can’t get it.”</p>
<p>More hesitation from the other end of the screen. Stan isn’t sure why he said it but it’s out there now, the question, the thinly veiled pleading, the desperate cry of ‘love me! love me!’ or at least ‘look at me!’</p>
<p>“Yeah, okay,” Richie says, like it’s no big deal. “Hey remember when you used to help me with math?”</p>
<p>Stan remembers it well – second grade, when he was still in the same class as Richie, the year before the kidney failure that held him back, the year before doctors and appointments and trailing behind his friends. He wasn’t even friends with Richie then, more just acquaintances, forced together by proximity and the fact that their fathers played baseball together in college.</p>
<p>Richie is setting his laptop on his desk at the other end of the dorm room. The mess surrounding him is visible now, stacks of takeout cartons and half-filled glasses, but for once Stan doesn’t mind. He wishes he was there, not stuck in Maine, he wishes he was with his friends, with Richie. In this moment he knows one thing for sure – he never wants to feel this lonely again.</p>
<p>“So,” Richie sinks into his desk chair like he’s settling in for the long haul and cracks a grin. “What’s the first question?”</p>
<p>This is the moment Stan realises he loves Richie.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>It takes him two weeks to answer Mike’s phone call.</p>
<p>At first, he thinks he’s going to ignore it, but his thumb moves on its own accord. He clicks the speaker button, too lazy to even raise the phone to his ear. He’s sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, trying to respond to the Kingsland boss, trying to tell him he can’t come, even though he can now, but he can’t because there’s still a chance that this all might be a mistake and Richie might call. Richie still might call. He sent a text a few days ago – very courteous, saying that they both need time – but he might call if Stan waits long enough.</p>
<p>Richie booked a plane ticket to California on their shared account last night. One way. One person.</p>
<p>Stan doesn’t even say hello when he answers the call.</p>
<p>“Stan?” Mike sounds breathless, like he’s been running. Maybe he has. “Stan, you there?”</p>
<p>He knows he should say something, but the sound of Mike’s voice is making him tear up. He doesn’t know why. It’s just Mike. Mike, his best friend, who he hasn’t seen since the party to celebrate Richie’s new job.</p>
<p>“Stan, you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. Can you just say something so I know you’re alive?”</p>
<p>“If I was dead how would I have answered the phone?” It’s meant to be a joke but it comes out all choked up. Stan realises he hasn’t spoken out loud an awful lot since Richie left. He tries to clear his throat but all that comes out is a messed up sob.</p>
<p>Mike is silent on the end of the phone aside from a few laboured breathes. Then – “I’m two blocks away Stan. I’ll be there soon.”</p>
<p>Stan fills the kettle and sets it on the stove while he’s waiting for Mike to arrive. The whistling sound is too loud. He exits out of the email window, covering one ear with a cupped hand to block out the intrusive sound. He closes the laptop and pushes it aside. He doesn’t want to think about that right now. He doesn’t want to think about anything.</p>
<p>He greets Mike at the door with a cup of tea. Jasmine and honey. Mike is in his running gear, shorts and vest, headphones trailing down his top and poking out the top of his pocket. He’s sweating, but all in all, he looks good. Stan is only vaguely aware of what he looks like. All he knows is that he looks breakable, and Mike looks sturdy.</p>
<p>“Can I give you a hug?” Mike asks, voice incredibly soft. He waits until Stan nods, then pulls the tea from his grip and sets it down. The hug he folds Stan into is strong and tight in the best kind of way. His arms wrap around his back, drawing soothing circles into his back like his mother used to when he was sick.</p>
<p>Stan hiccups out a sob and Mike just holds him tighter.</p>
<p>Stan gravitates back towards the rigid kitchen table when he pulls back from the hug. Mike steers him away, and instead he finds himself curled up on the couch, with a blanket and cup of tea in his hands. Mike roots around the kitchen for acceptable food and finds chips in the back of a cupboard. He sets it on the coffee table. Stan knows Mike’s worried he’s not looking after himself, but he won’t ask. Stan’s only just stopped crying.</p>
<p>Mike doesn’t say anything. He’s pulled his headphones out now, tucked them safely away in his pocket alongside his phone. He doesn’t check it, or tap his foot, or whistle. Richie used to whistle whenever he was bored.</p>
<p>“He told me to take the job,” Stan says, because it seems important.</p>
<p>“And are you going to?”</p>
<p>A half-shrug. Stan thinks about taking the job a lot. He used to fantasise about it, when he first got the offer. Him and Richie in a big comfortable house with lots of open windows. The heat of the south. The best job he could ever hope to get.</p>
<p>“Do you think he stopped loving me?” Stan asks, because that’s important too.</p>
<p>Mike doesn’t answer as quickly this time. He taps his foot against the ground twice. Takes a small sip from his mug. “I think you need to ask Richie that one,” he says finally.</p>
<p>Stan can’t help but snort. “Then what are you here for?”</p>
<p>“To be your friend.”</p>
<p>“I’ve tried to talk to Richie,” Stan adds in a small whisper. He’s not sure why he’s whispering. It’s like he’s scared if he says these things out loud, they become solid, and real. “He won’t answer my phone calls.”</p>
<p>“Maybe that’s for the best right now,” Mike says after some consideration. Stan doesn’t know what that means.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“I thought about you every day, Stanley,” Richie says with a sincerity that makes Stanley wince. He knew the conversation was coming, that they couldn’t keep it at bay for much longer, but part of Stan believed they could at least get through the main course before it did. He sips on his wine, grateful for it and yet not even really tasting it.</p>
<p>“I did,” Richie continues, leaning across the table. Stan looks away, to where the couple next to them are polishing off a shared cheese bored. “When I first moved out there I was a wreck. I wasn’t sleeping, I couldn’t work, I just kept seeing you in everything and the shit we packed together made me feel worse. I wanted to call you, I really did, but I also wanted to give you space. We both needed time to think things through, think through what we wanted-”</p>
<p>“You sound like you’re reading from a self-help book,” Stan says bluntly, setting the wine down. Across the table Richie draws a careful breath.</p>
<p>“Okay, so I read a few of them when you told me about the Kingsland job,” he chuckles nervously. “And a few more when I was staying at Bill’s, he has fucking hundreds of them. You know I suck at talking about my feelings.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t even stick around long enough to talk to me about your feelings,” Stan’s voice sounds bitter in his own ears. He feels the eyes of the couple next to him on the back of his neck and lowers his voice to a thin whisper. “I didn’t even know you were feeling any different until you fucking – fucking left me.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t leave you. I let you go,” Richie says, like it’s simple.</p>
<p>Maybe it is. Everything with Richie was simple, even when it felt heavy. Everything was simple and easy when he was in bed with Richie, or holding Richie’s hand, or doing their fucking taxes side by side.</p>
<p>“What if I didn’t want to be let go?”</p>
<p>“You would’ve stayed with me?”</p>
<p>“Of course I would. I love you, Richie,” Stan says, for the first time without doubting it for a second. “I’ve had a long time to think about that and I’ve realised that we never even really said it. I would’ve stayed with you forever if you’d given me that choice.”</p>
<p>“Even if that made you miserable?” Richie’s fingers furl tightly around his pint glass. Stan wishes he could reach out and ease the tension out of them until they unclenched.</p>
<p>“You could never make me miserable.”</p>
<p>He thinks about leaning across the table and kissing Richie sweetly. He thinks about how he’d get sauce on his shirt and spill his wine but neither of them would care. Who could care, when he’s kissing Richie like that?</p>
<p>“But LA could,” Richie says and it’s too late. “Living a life you didn’t want to live would’ve made you so miserable. I know you Stanley. I know what you want.”</p>
<p>“I wanted you,” he insists, but it doesn’t matter because Richie is shaking his head and looking down at the table and Stan might have missed his last chance to kiss him.</p>
<p>“No you didn’t.”</p>
<p>“I did.”</p>
<p>“Okay, you did then. But you wanted that job too. and in twenty years, ten years, five years even when I’ve made you miserable and we’re broke and living in California you would’ve looked back and kicked yourself for not taking it.”</p>
<p>“No. I don’t think like that,” Stan shakes his head but it’s without any conviction. There is a certainty in Richie’s words that has allowed the doubt to creep in. Would he have regretted moving to California?</p>
<p>“Yes you do. Look, Stanley, you would’ve never chosen that job over me. So I made the choice for you. The right choice,”</p>
<p>“That wasn’t your choice to make,” he says petulantly which makes Richie grin at him, a soft and sincere smile. Stan wishes he could freeze this moment forever – <em>Richie, across from him, smiling at him, despite everything.</em></p>
<p>“Maybe not.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“Morning.”</p>
<p>Richie looks heavenly in the morning light, despite his SpongeBob boxers and the comedic bikini apron. His hair is still tussled from sleep – or more from bed, seen as neither of them got much sleep – but he turns to smile when Stan enters. He feels awkward, emerging from Richie’s room, where he had woken up minutes ago, swamped in the bedsheets and alone. The light had just begun to spill through the ratty curtains. His head had been thumping, skull seemingly rattling inside, but his usual water and painkillers weren’t waiting on the nightstand, and the nightstand wasn’t his and he was suddenly reminded of last nights ‘mistake’. It didn’t feel much like a mistake to Stan, but he couldn’t say that to Richie. He just wanted a roommate when he asked Stan to share the lease, not a boyfriend. He doesn’t want to date Stan. If he did he would’ve asked a long time again.</p>
<p>He had pulled Richie’s sweatshirt over his head before he left the room, in some last ditch attempt to regain some dignity. It didn’t work. Now he just feels awkward and clingy hovering in Richie’s doorway. They’re not dating so what was he thinking? He wants to pull the jumper off but the reveal of him wearing nothing underneath would be more humiliating.</p>
<p>Richie doesn’t look uncomfortable. “Morning,” he returns with a smile. Beneath him something sizzles in a pan contently. He gestures to it with a spatula. “Pancakes?”</p>
<p>“Yes please,” Stan says, breathing in the sweet scent of the batter frying. Richie shimmies the spatula underneath it with ease and flips it over. Stan doesn’t know how he can be so cool and collected, so unabashed despite everything. He should be awkward, Stan thinks. He should feel nervous, and uncomfortable about last night. Instead he’s acting like it wasn’t a big deal, the two of them getting drunk and screwing on their first night as roommates.</p>
<p>Just as Stan is mulling over how bad of an idea it was to move in with Richie after college, Richie turns to face him.</p>
<p>“You didn’t even ask what’s in them,” he says, leaning back against the counter. “That’s a big leap of faith from a guy who never used to let me cook him anything. Remember when I tried to bake you cookies when we were seven?”</p>
<p>“They were disgusting,” Stan pulls a face that makes Richie laugh, easily and honestly. I can do this, Stan thinks. If Richie can do casual then I can too, because that’s all this is. Just casual friends having casual sex and acting all casual about it the morning after. It’s what they’ve been doing for years. Nothing has changed just because they’re living together.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I forgot the butter,” Richie admits, turning around to slide the pancake out the pan and onto the slowly growing stack. Stan folds his arms across his chest, unsure if he should sit down.</p>
<p>“Honestly I’d eat anything right now. My head is pounding; do we have ibuprofen?” He asks Richie, despite the fact that this apartment belongs to the both of them. He let Richie sort out the kitchen whilst he organised the bathroom. It’s sickeningly domestic, he now realises.</p>
<p>“Second shelf,” Richie gestures to the cupboard at the kitchens far side, pouring more batter into the pan. Stan opens the cupboard, expecting to route around but finds that is perfectly organised, just the way he likes it. He glances back at Richie, the king of mess who once boasted he hadn’t cleaned his room in three years, but he’s facing away from him, still rambling.</p>
<p>“I put blueberries in the pancakes, if you’re interested. Thought I’d try something new. Mike says they taste good, but honestly I don’t know. They look a little mushy.”</p>
<p>“Do you regret it?” Stan says without thinking. So much for acting casual.</p>
<p>“The blueberries?” Richie blunders on, squinting down at the pan. He prods the batter with his spatula.  “I don’t know till I taste them but yeah, I think so. I knew I should’ve stuck to cinnamon sugar.”</p>
<p>“Richie, do you regret it?” Stan says again. He’s still holding the ibuprofen box, crushing it beneath his fingers. His head is still pounding, but he has a sudden desire to know.</p>
<p>“What is this, twenty questions?” Richie turns around, laugh dying when he sees Stan’s tight grip on the box, knuckles turning white. “Regret what?”</p>
<p>“The-” Stan starts, but finds his voice won’t extend any further. Richie’s smile is warping into a frown and it’s the saddest thing Stan has ever seen. He never meant to make Richie sad. He just wanted – he doesn’t even know. To sabotage himself, he guesses. Ruin things when they’re as good as they’re ever going to be.</p>
<p>“The what? You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific, I regret nearly everything I’ve ever done with my life,” Richie laughs again but it’s harsh and brittle this time, like the situation is finally making him uncomfortable. Like Stan is making him uncomfortable.</p>
<p>“Last night…” Stan trails off. He can’t stop staring at the stupid fucking bikini on Richie’s apron, with its comically large breasts and red polka dot panties. He got it one year for secret Santa and Bev had said that it was modelled on her. What a stupid thing to keep, after all those years. What a stupid thing to pack up and cart around and unfold in each new kitchen you live in.</p>
<p>“What? The sex?” Richie laughs again, the same intonation that makes Stan wince. He moves past Richie, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and running it under the faucet. He just wants his headache to go away and Richie staring at him like a ticking bomb doesn’t make him feel any less uncomfortable.</p>
<p>“We’ve fucked a hundred times, Stanley, it wasn’t exactly a new development.”</p>
<p>Stan shoves two pills in his mouth and swallows them dry, despite the water in his grip. He puts the box and glass down on the counter, wincing when they crack against the surface. He shouldn’t have drunk so much last night, he shouldn’t have slept with Richie and he shouldn’t have moved in with him. He doesn’t think anything through.</p>
<p> Why? Do you regret it? Is this why you’re being weird with me?” Richie’s tone shifts to concern as he sets the spatula down, pan still sizzling away on the stove.</p>
<p>“I’m not being weird with you,” Stan tries to brush it off and move out of the kitchen but Richie follows him. He picks his shirt up of the floor by the TV cabinet – where Richie had pulled it off him last night, only undoing the first three buttons then pulling it over his head, shimmying him out of it. Stan picks it up now and folds it tightly in his hands, just to do something. Richie is hovering behind him still, hesitantly reaching a hand out to brush Stan’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“You can tell me, Stan. Fuck. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. We don’t have to fool around if you don’t want to, I just though you wanted to-”</p>
<p>“I did want to,” Stan insists. There is an edge of panic in Richie’s voice and when he turns around he sees the anxious way he is looking down at him.</p>
<p>“You say the word and I’ll back off,” Richie’s voice is soft and he lets the hand that was brushing Stan’s shoulder drop to his side. “I won’t bother you again, cross my heart, swear to die.”</p>
<p>Stan wants Richie to touch his shoulder again, but he doesn’t know how to ask for that. “I don’t want you to back off,” he says instead.</p>
<p>I want you to love me, he thinks.</p>
<p> “Okay,” Richie says.</p>
<p>I want you to kiss me in front of our friends.</p>
<p>“I really really don’t want you to back off…”</p>
<p>I want you to say that this is something to you.</p>
<p>I want you to say it out loud.</p>
<p>I want to say it out loud.</p>
<p>“Okay. Good. I really don’t want to back off either,” Richie laughs, a thin nervous laugh that rattles. Stan lets out a slow breath. “Thought I was gonna have to make you sign an NDA then. Stop you going around telling everyone about my lumpy dick.”</p>
<p>Stan closes his eyes and exhales the notion that he was ever going to tell Richie how he feels.</p>
<p>“And your hair pulling kink?”</p>
<p>“Fuck you Stanley Urine,” sharp, strong laughter, accompanied by a small shove against his shoulder like when they were younger.</p>
<p>“Don’t bring up urine when we’re talking about sex,” Stan fake groans, rubbing a hand against his face so Richie can’t see the way he forces a small smile to his lips.</p>
<p>“Why? Scared I’ve got a piss kink too?”</p>
<p>“I fucking hope not.”</p>
<p>“Want to find out?”</p>
<p>Before Stan can respond Richie’s arms are braced around his torso and he is being heaved off his feet, suspended just inches in the air.</p>
<p>“Richie, if you piss on me I will tell the entire state of New York that you’re disgusting and terrible in bed-” he tries to protest, but makes no effort to escape Richie’s grasp, loving the tight hold and the breathless, air swelling in his lungs and then being swallowed down. Richie takes a few steps towards his own room, where they had been just hours before.</p>
<p>“Lies and slander!” Richie cries, kicking the door closed behind him.</p>
<p>In the kitchen the pancakes are burning.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Beverly greets him at the door with a glass of wine. Red, a deep colour, slightly warm to the touch. Just how Stan remembers drinking it with her their first year of college, graduating from cheap wine coolers to the stuff his parents drink.</p>
<p>He is immediately grateful, and already more relaxed when he takes a single sip and peels his shoes off with one hand. Bev retreats to the kitchen island and pours herself a glass of the same, though it is notably less full than Stan’s. He expects her to manoeuvre towards the couch – still in the kitchen in this odd brand of open plan of her apartment which Richie always called Ben’s ‘wet architectural dream’ – but she doesn’t.</p>
<p>“I’m cooking dinner,” she says instead, gesturing towards the stove with her wine glass. “Mind if we stay in here?”</p>
<p>Stan nods obligingly and carries his glass to the kitchen island, setting it down with a clink against the marble. There are stools surrounding the island where he had once helped Richie clean a war wound from the ceiling fan in the flats bathroom. It was his own fault for claiming he could do a kick flip off the side of the tub. He didn’t even have a skateboard with him.</p>
<p>Stan tries hard not to think about Richie. All he can think about is Richie.</p>
<p>There’s a pot simmering on the stove which Bev stirs with a practised grace. The whole room is full of the aroma from the pot, rich and creamy. Stan can’t remember the time he cooked something other than a microwave meal. Probably the night Richie left. His stomach rumbles involuntarily.</p>
<p>“Hungry?” Bev taps the wooden spoon she was using to stir against the pot three times in quick succession. She’s dressed up for a Thursday night. Usually by the time Stan would get to her apartment for wine night she would already be in her pyjamas, curled up on the couch, hair freshly scrubbed from the shower. Now she’s still in her work clothes, slacks and a blouse, pressed neatly. She’s still wearing makeup too, lips red, and her hair is bone dry. Sipping at her wine she looks almost like a proper adult. Stan thinks instead about the time she threw up on the subway, trying not to think about the fact that he’s wearing the same sweater for the fifth day in a row.</p>
<p>He politely sips at his own wine, side-stepping into a seat. “Not really,” he says, even though he is. He’s had hunger pangs a lot recently, but no appetite when he actually finds himself sat in front of a meal. “Mike and Bill took me out for sushi earlier.”</p>
<p>He leaves out the fact that the whole thing had been a disaster, that the restaurant had been cramped and the kind of dirty which he hates, and that he’d had a panic attack while Mike was in the bathroom and Bill was paying. She probably already knows.</p>
<p>“You sure? I made plenty,” she’s smiling at him, but it looks a little strained. “It’s just carbonara, but I thought I’d use up the leftover ham in the fridge. You like creamy sauces, right?”</p>
<p>“Really, I’m okay Beverly,” he tries to wave her off with his glass but ends up sloshing wine over the rim. She grabs the cloth hooked around the stove door and slides it to him. He presses it against the liquid, watching the stain evaporate into the cloth, spotting the white fabric with dark red.</p>
<p>She taps her fingers against the glass, wine nursed in her grip, before setting it down on the side. “I’ll just grab you a plate, put my mind at ease. You don’t have to eat it, but just in case you get hungry.”</p>
<p>She busies herself grabbing pasta bowls and cutlery from the cupboards, and turning the sauce down further. Stan feels the overwhelming sense of love, but also the suffocation that comes with it. The same type of suffocation he felt at lunch, wedged into a booth between Bill and Mike. They meant well, taking him to lunch and asking the right questions about his job, and the upcoming move, but it still felt all wrong. His life still feels wrong – like it’s been sawn in half, and the other side is an empty nothingness.</p>
<p>Stan opens his mouth to tell Beverly he doesn’t want any pasta but she is already waving her arm backwards to him. “Will you drain the pasta?” she asks, already busy hooking a finger into the sauce and licking it clean. Part of Stan wants to bolt away from the stifling domesticity of everything, but instead he finds himself looking at the pasta boiling over, water sizzling on the hob.</p>
<p>Richie always used to drain the pasta. Stan tried once and his arms had buckled halfway through. Richie had pressed in from behind him and held onto the pan whilst Stan held the colander still. He’d pressed kisses to Stan’s neck, scratching him with the stubble, making him laugh as he drained the pasta.</p>
<p>He’s holding the colander and standing over the sink before he can think too much about it. He manages to drain the whole pan without his elbows giving in halfway through, and without anyone helping him.</p>
<p>“I’m home!”</p>
<p>Ben arrives home just as Bev is serving up, heaping massive portions into three bowls.</p>
<p>“Smells good,” he says as he pulls off his coat and throws it on the hat stand. He’s smiling, the kind of smile that isn’t for any other reason than his own happiness. He sets his keys down on the stand, hopping as he pulls his shoes off and discard them. “Oh, hey, Stan,” he says when he notices the other person in his kitchen. He seems a little surprised, but his smile doesn’t slip at all. “How are you doing, man?”</p>
<p>He acts the question like it’s easy, and Stan tries to answer the question like it is but the words get stuck in his throat. All he manages is a shrug, averting his eyes and instead watching Bev reach behind her, into a cupboard for a third wine glass. Stan takes another sip of the wine, then another, and then a long gulp. His throat still feels raw and scratchy.</p>
<p>“We thought we’d start our Thursday wine nights up again,” Bev says by means of explanation, pouring the wine into the empty glass. She hands it to Ben and presses a small kiss to his temple. “We both got so busy before, thought we could use the catch up.”</p>
<p>“Thursday wine night, of course,” Ben says, like they didn’t stop doing them in the second year of college, like it’s not at all odd to find a friend crashing your date night at the age of 27. It is a date night, Stan realises now, looking at the shirt Ben has on and the neatness of Bev’s makeup.</p>
<p>He thinks about leaving, but then Ben is sitting in the seat next to him and Bev is passing them both bowls of carbonara, and he realises it would be just as rude to leave. Bev refreshes the wine, and takes a seat opposite the two of them.</p>
<p>They talk about Ben’s day at work, and Bev’s day off, about day trips they are planning and projects they’re dreaming of. Stan is grateful he doesn’t have to talk for once, answering questions about the job and the new flat whilst everyone avoids asking the painfully obvious ones, like “are you sleeping?” and “when did you last leave the flat?” and “do you miss him?”</p>
<p>Ben’s phone sits, case up on the table. Stan wonders what would happen if he stole it and called Richie. Would he answer? Or would he know, before picking up, that it’s Stan?</p>
<p>“Stan,” Ben says softly half-way through the meal when Bev gets up to use the bathroom. It’s jarring, hearing his name, however softly Ben says it. He was starting to forget he exists. “You don’t have to eat it, if you don’t want. I know she can be forceful but she won’t be offended if you don’t.”</p>
<p>He’s gesturing downwards, Stan realises, to his plate. He follows Ben’s fork and notice that his own bowl is still full of pasta. He halts his hand, realising he has just been twirling the dinner beneath his fork and not actually eating it.</p>
<p>He stabs at a piece of pasta and, mainly just to prove Ben wrong, shoves it in his mouth. It’s everything he’s been missing, soft and salty and loving. He raises another forkful, and Ben laughs, digging back into his own portion.</p>
<p>“This is good,” he tells Bev when she comes back, plate already half-emptied.</p>
<p>“It’s true,” Ben confirms, laughing through a mouthful of pasta. “Have you considered abandoning fashion and pursuing a career in the culinary arts?”</p>
<p>Bev snorts on her wine, it nearly spewing from her mouth and Stan finds himself laughing for the first time in a while. “Shut up,” she wheezes, but she’s beaming. “Both of you, not another word.”</p>
<p>For the first time since he left - really, for the first time since high school - Stan doesn’t think about Richie.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“When did you know?” Stan asks as Richie cuts into his steak. It’s pink and bloody, the way Stan always hated it, bordering on raw. “That you were going to leave.”</p>
<p>He expects Richie to be taken back by the question but instead he just pops a piece of the meat into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. Stan pushes his fork through his own salad, uninterested and not all that hungry.</p>
<p>“Not until I saw the emails,” Richie says when he swallows. He reaches out for his Guinness but finds it empty and instead steers his hand towards the water jug instead. He pours himself a glass, then leans to fill Stan’s, despite the fact that he’s barely taken two sips.</p>
<p>Stan stabs a cherry tomato with his fork. “But before then… before the party, then after we – we had sex, I saw that look in your eyes – doubt. I didn’t realise it was that until you were gone, but I know now.”</p>
<p>He knew then too, he just pretended not to.</p>
<p>He knew. He knew. <em>He knew</em>.</p>
<p>“You hate the heat,” Richie says between bites of food. The restaurant is busier now, full of bustling New Yorkers reuniting with friends over tapas and tourists sheltering from the cold in the crowds. The couple next to them are paying their bill and leaving, a new couple soon to take their space, the macabre dance continuing onto another life cycle.</p>
<p>“What?” Stan asks, sure he has misheard among the throng of the restaurant.</p>
<p>“You kept saying how excited you were for the sun but you hate the heat,” Richie says, smiling in a sad sort of way. “And you hate health food, and TV comedies, and noise.”</p>
<p>“I like New York,” Stan gestures around them with his fork. A small spot of red sauce lands on the pristine white table cloth. “This city is the nosiest place in the world.”</p>
<p>“No,” Richie says confidently. “You like your job and you love your friends. You tolerate New York. You wouldn’t have been able to tolerate California. Not without your friends. Certainly not without your job. Yet whenever anyone asked you what you were excited for you said the sun.”</p>
<p>Stan takes a bite of the tomato, the juice inside dribbling messily down his chin. “How do you know I hate heat?”</p>
<p>“Because I’ve known you since we were kids. You hate heat because the humidity makes your hair frizzy and you hate sweating and you don’t like having to squint to see. I know because I know you. And I know you wouldn’t have been happy there,” Richie eyes Stan and it makes him feel like a pouty child.</p>
<p>“You don’t know me well enough then,” he says, with an edge of sulk in his voice. “Because you didn’t know I wouldn’t be happy without you either.”</p>
<p>Richie looks down at his plate but Stan can’t take his eyes of the other man, sat across the table with his head bowed and bag by his side.</p>
<p>“That was the last time you kissed me, you know,” he says, matter-of-factly, like his bandaged heart isn’t cracking in his chest. “After the leaving party.”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>“I wish I’d known that then. I wish I’d have taken more notice.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“Here he is! Man of the hour!” Bill slings an arm around Richie’s shoulder before he even has chance to take his coat off and presses a rough kiss to his cheek. It makes Richie laugh, a deep throaty laugh, face flushed red. “Where have you been dude? I lost beer pong to Bev and Mike because my teammate wasn’t here. It was so embarrassing.”</p>
<p>It’s his and Richie’s leaving party and they’re ridiculously late. Bev and Ben’s whole flat is decked in balloons and bunting and there’s a banner covering the living room window which says “Bon Troyage!” – a reference Stan doesn’t get to a show he doesn’t watch. The whole place looks like a child’s birthday party, save the table propped against the wall which sports a host of drinks not suitable for children.</p>
<p>Their friends have clearly been drinking for a while before the two of them got there. Bill is leaning heavily against Richie’s side, whilst Bev and Mike loll on the sofa, Bev roaring at some joke, drink foaming out of her mouth. Ben looks okay in the kitchen, just a little red in the face as he jostles with an empty pizza box.</p>
<p>“Just got a little held up,” Richie says. “Had some old job stuff to sort out.”</p>
<p>It’s not the real reason they’re late. They’re late because they had yet another conversation about the Kingsland job, and about how Stan should go if he really wants to. He’d just been putting on his coat when Richie had come up to him with that weird notion that Stan didn’t want to come to LA with him – despite the packed boxes and the leased apartment and him quitting his job three weeks ago.</p>
<p>Richie’s been having those a lot lately – moments of doubt, where he’s convinced Stan doesn’t want to come to LA. Stan doesn’t want to think about what Richie would think if he found the emails between him and the Kingsland bosses, still going on despite everything. It’s hard enough to get the idea that Stan is going to leave him out of his head. And to get this strange look out of his eyes.</p>
<p>Bill presses a finger to his lips messily. He can barely even hold himself up without Richie’s help, and Stan wonders how he’s going to manage without his designated babysitters who have been looking out for him since they first started getting drunk at high school parties. He cranes his neck around, looking for Audra, but he can’t see her.</p>
<p>“Audra not with you, Bill?” He asks curiously. Bill blanches like he’s just realising he’s there.</p>
<p>“Stan!” he crows, unwinding his arms from around Richie’s neck and instead latching himself onto Stan. He pulls a little at his scarf, nearly strangling him, then settles lent against his hip. “I didn’t know you were coming! Man, this party! It keeps getting better!”</p>
<p>Richie lets out a sharp laugh at that. “God, Big Bill how many have you had? Don’t pass out now. You’re gonna miss the strippers. Ben did get me strippers, right? Or did he go the whole way and get me prostitutes?”</p>
<p>Bill doesn’t answer that, or laugh, instead fixing Stan and Richie with his wide saucer eyes. He’s even pouting a little, looking like a dejected puppy, swaying on Stan’s side. He’s heavy, Stan realises as he reaches across to hold him up. “You two are my best friends. I love you both so much. I love you. Richie, I really love you.”</p>
<p>“I love you too, Billy boy,” Richie says sincerely but he’s smirking a little, holding back a laugh.</p>
<p>“You’re like, the best man I ever know. Known. I can’t believe the Californians get you. Lucky bastards. You’re just the best, Rich.”</p>
<p>“Don’t give him too many compliments. They’ll just inflate his ego,” Stan warns. Richie grins at him, still flush in the face. He has the same glint in his eye that he did earlier, when they were trying to hail a cab outside their apartment. An odd melancholic look that makes Stan feel cold all over.</p>
<p>He can’t think about it for too long, because Eddie rounds up on his other side. His face is flushed too, but his eyes are also unfocused and his tie has been pulled loose. He’s clearly been drinking long before the rest of them. He also tries to reach Richie’s shoulder but falls short, leaning against his side, swaying. Richie shuffles like he’s been ambushed, which he kind of has.</p>
<p>“Don’t think his ego could get any bigger,” Eddie slurs, voice surprising stable. He’s holding a plastic champagne flute, Stan notices, although the rest of them are holding glasses. “Have you seen the size of his head?”</p>
<p>“Awh Eds, way to hurt a man’s feelings,” Richie rises to it just like Stan expects him to, and for a moment he doesn’t even think about California, or that everyone he loves will be here whilst he’s on the other side of the country. Well, everything he loves except Richie. Which is all that matters. Obviously.</p>
<p>“You’re gonna miss me though?” Richie persists. Against Stan’s side Bill lolls, head rolling. He manages to ease him into a chair by the side of the door. It feels an awful lot like disposing of a body. “You’re gonna miss me, right Eds?”</p>
<p>Eddie’s voice is still shrill through his slurring but it lacks heat. “Back off asshole, I have pepper spray and I’m not afraid to use it.”</p>
<p>“Aren’t you gonna miss your best friends Eds? Aren’t you?” Richie teases. He’s prodding Eddie’s side now, jabbing it with his fingers whilst Eddie yelps, prosecco slopping over the side of his glass and dribbling on to his hand. Stan uses the bickering as an opportunity to pour himself a drink, leaving Bill splayed in the seat, still murmuring to himself.</p>
<p>“You’re not my best friend. You’re not even in the top ten.”</p>
<p>“You don’t even have ten friends.”</p>
<p>“Yes I do dickwad.”</p>
<p>“Spaghetti, I keep telling you that the other members in that weird internet sex cult you joined don’t count as friends. They’re just trying to get your blood to sell it on eBay.”</p>
<p>“I’m gonna miss those two bickering,” Stan is so intent on mixing his drink – vodka and coke, way too heavy on the vodka – that he doesn’t hear Mike coming. His voice is strong, without a trace of alcohol and when Stan turns around he’s smiling, leaning back on his heels.</p>
<p>“I’m not. How much has he had to drink?” he gestures towards Eddie, just in case Mike mistakes his question for being about Bill, who is passed out where Stan left him. That’s different, though. Bill is just a lightweight.</p>
<p>Mike shrugs easily. “No idea. He was already drunk when I got here, so he must’ve started as soon as he finished work. I don’t think he’s taking any of this very well.”</p>
<p>“Who knew he’d actually miss Richie?” Stan says drily. It makes Mike go quiet, almost contemplative. Stan sips his strong concoction, then picks up the bottle and adds more vodka, suddenly feeling the crushing weight of leaving.</p>
<p>“They’re best friends,” Mike says after a pregnant pause. At the other side of the room Eddie kicks Richie’s shins, making him squeal in pain. “They just have a very odd way of showing it. I’m gonna miss you too Stan,” Mike tacks on, words too heavy for how sober Stan feels.</p>
<p>“Yeah. Yeah, you too,” he has to grit the words out before they lodge themselves in his throat. He gulps down half his drink but before he can turn around to refill it Mike has thrown an arm around his shoulder and is leading him to the couch. It’s empty now, Bev in the kitchen bothering a tipsy Ben, Eddie and Richie still bickering.</p>
<p>“Did you tell Richie about Georgia?” Mike asks from behind the rim of his own glass. He’s definitely had a drink, Stan thinks. No sober person launches into difficult questions this early in the night.</p>
<p>“I told him that there was a job and that I’m not taking it. They’ll be plenty of jobs in Cali.”</p>
<p>Mike pauses, and at first Stan thinks he’s going to leave it. Then he takes a sip of his drink and says under his breath, “None like this one, though.”</p>
<p>“You can be an accountant anywhere,” Stan says irritably, already growing weary of this conversation. How many times can he say the same thing? To Richie, to Mike, it’s all the same. He can’t keep saying it over and over again. “You can only be in Hollywood in Hollywood. Why are you so obsessed with this any way?”</p>
<p>Mike holds up his hand in surrender. “I just want you to think this through.”</p>
<p>“I have,” Stan insists. “I love Richie and I want to stay with Richie, and if that’s in California then that’s where I’ll go.”</p>
<p>Mike pauses again, taking a slow sip of his drink. Stan follows suit, eyes on Richie who has somehow convinced Eddie and Bev to dance the Macarena with him, despite the slow music playing in the background. Stan finds himself pressing his lips together to stifle a laugh bubbling at the surface.</p>
<p>“Even if it means giving up the most important job opportunity of your life?” Mike asks.</p>
<p>“Even if it means listening to his bad impressions and putting up with his morning breath every day,” Stan assures. In that moment he is so sure of himself, of him and Richie. He’s even a little excited for California, despite the heat, and the health fads and rollerbladers. He’s excited for their life to start properly, that’s for sure. No more scraping by, no more crappy subways. Just Richie, and the sea. “I don’t need that job. I have everything I need.”</p>
<p>“I just think you should talk to Richie about it. Properly,” Stan glares at him and Mike barks out a laugh, snaking a hand around Stan’s shoulder and squeezing him against his side in a rough hug. “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up now.”</p>
<p>“Shut up about what?” Bev throws herself with some force into Stan’s lap, making him groan. She smells of gin and her lipstick is smeared around her mouth. She leans back against Stan, and he wraps his arms around her waist automatically, like he always does when she throws herself on him.</p>
<p>“About how much I’m gonna miss Stan,” Mike says, winking at Stan too quickly for the drunk Bev to notice. She pouts at him, like just remembering Richie’s new job, then presses a messy kiss to his cheek. He can feel the tacky texture of the lipstick but doesn’t try to wipe it away.</p>
<p>“And how much I’m not going to miss Ben’s parties,” he says instead, which makes Bev cackle. She sounds sinister when she does, like she’s been scheming.</p>
<p> “Just wait until later. He’s got party games and everything.”</p>
<p>“As long as he doesn’t make me dance,” Stan says drily. In reality, he hopes there is dancing. There’s nothing he loves more than dancing with his friends, rolling his eyes on the edge of the crowd until someone – Richie – grabs his hand and pulls him into the fray. He loves the way Ben scrunches up his eyes and nose, the 70’s disco style routine Eddie and Bill have had since high school, the fact that Bev always dances with her hands in the air.</p>
<p>The way Richie never let’s go of his hands.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The first night in his new flat he has a nightmare.</p>
<p>It’s one from his childhood, of lighthouses and floating bodies and the old silo from his hometown. He hasn’t had it in years. Not since he left home. Not since sleeping beside Richie.</p>
<p>He tries to get himself a glass of water and instead wanders into the bathroom. He isn’t used to the layout of his new place yet. It’s awkward, cold and uncomfortable. The sharp edges and tiled flooring remind Stan of himself.</p>
<p>Richie would hate a place like this. He was a fan of huge windows and couches you sink into, and kitchens where there’s enough room for all his extra appliances. He used to own every kind of appliance, asking for one from his parents and friends every birthday. Stan had bought him a blender when they moved in together. Richie used it to make milkshakes then leave the dirty blades on the draining board.</p>
<p>Richie had taken the blender with him. Well, Eddie had, because he’d been the one to come and collect Richie’s things. He was very apologetic about it, kept saying Richie was going to come but had some stuff to sort out. Stan had felt sorry for Eddie, hauling the heavy boxes around, doing Richie’s dirty work when he couldn’t even be bothered to turn up. Mostly he felt angry at Richie, though, for not being there. He had said when he left that they would talk about it later. Stan doesn’t know when later is.</p>
<p>Maybe they’ll get round to talking when they’re both old and grey. Or when they’re dead.</p>
<p>Stan checks his phone now. The light of it illuminates the dark bathroom and stings his eyes. The clock says 2:30 AM, but Stan feels awake and wired. He can’t stop thinking about the nightmare, and how the boy’s bodies had bloated as they rested on the surface of the water. He wonders if he should call Richie. Wonders if Richie would be awake.</p>
<p>He opens his contacts and scrolls through. If he called Bev, she’d get a cab over and just sit with him. She’s been doing that a lot – getting cabs over and sitting with him in silence, like they’ll suddenly be a day that Stan is fine and has moved on.</p>
<p>Or he could call Bill. Bill is the expert at finding bars that are still open as night fades into early morning. They could go out and Stan could get properly drunk for the first time since new year’s.</p>
<p>He knows he could call Ben, or Eddie, or even walk over to Mike’s and crash there. Mike’s sound appealing, with its comfy couch and herbal teas and best of all, Mike.</p>
<p>In the end, Stan clicks the phone off and puts it back in his pocket. This apartment is only temporary – soon he’ll be in Kingsland, miles away from his friends. He won’t be able to run to them for help anymore, whenever he has a bad dream or an urge to tell Richie that he loves him, just to see if he says it back.</p>
<p>Instead he climbs back into bed and scrolls through flights to California until he falls asleep.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>This is the last time they have sex.</p>
<p>Stan doesn’t know it at that moment, the bedroom door handle digging in to his back, Richie’s lips on his. He realises later, three days after Richie leaves him, sat alone in a tepid bath.</p>
<p>He wonders if he would have done anything differently, if he had known. If he would’ve gone slower, hung up their coats on the hook by the door, put their shoes neatly on the rack. He wonders if he would’ve stopped to fix them a drink, giddy like teenagers, barely able to keep their hands off each other as he scoured through the freezer for an ice tray, or rattled through the cupboard for the gin.</p>
<p>Instead he barely breaks for a breath as he peels off his jacket. Richie’s breath is hot and heavy on the nape of his neck, his arms braced either side of the bedroom door, chest heaving.</p>
<p>“I had a really nice time tonight,” he half-whispers, voice a heady mix of alcohol and lust. Stan nods, reaches forward to ease Richie’s arms out of his jacket. There is a struggle as a sleeve catches on his elbow but Stan continues pulling and dislodges it. He discards of it on the floor then reaches forward for Richie’s shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons.</p>
<p>“I had a really really great time. Did you have a good time, Stan?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I had a nice time,” Stan throws out distractedly. All he can think about is getting Richie’s shirt off, and then his own shirt off, and – well, his slightly buzzed brain stops at shirts, unable to fill the rest of the blanks in ahead of time.</p>
<p>“I can’t believe Ben threw us a party,” Richie is still talking as Stan undoes the last few buttons and peels his shirt off, then presses his lips against the other boy’s shoulder. “That was so nice of him. So nice. I’m gonna miss that bastard. I’m gonna miss all of ‘em. Can you believe we’re moving soon? Fuck, I’m gonna miss them all so much. Especially Ben. That boy can throw a party. He’s so awesome-”</p>
<p>“Richie?” Stan pulls back momentarily, lips inches from his bare skin, the two of them half naked, half way to their bedroom, Stan’s back still flush against the door.</p>
<p>“Hmm?” Richie hums. He’s wavering a little on his feet, and Stan doesn’t feel much soberer, drunk on the night, on the moment – and on copious amounts of vodka and white wine.</p>
<p>“I’m about to touch your dick, can you please stop talking about Ben?”</p>
<p>“Ay ay, Captain.”</p>
<p>This is the last time they have sex.</p>
<p>It’s also the first time they’ve had sex in weeks.</p>
<p>Stan’s grateful now that he had prepped in Bev and Ben’s bathroom, no matter how awkward he felt when Bill kept repeatedly hammering on the door. He’s grateful now, because it means not one second away from Richie, not a second for him to cool down and not want to touch Stan anymore. He hasn’t wanted to touch him in so long, so when Richie puts his mouth on his dick he keens like it’s the first time.</p>
<p>He inhales sharply, hands already finding purchase on the headboard to hold himself steady. There’s something intoxicating in how Richie knows his body like a map he memorised a long time ago.</p>
<p>“You good?” Richie’s voice is low, rough, but impossibly gentle. Stan wishes he could ask him to be rough, not careful – rough in the way Stan has always loved, rough in the way that makes him feel drunk and on fire and loved.</p>
<p>He doesn’t, though. He’s too afraid that if anything changes, Richie will stop touching him, and if that happened he would die. Instead he forces a minute nod and arches as Richie’s fingers seek around the back.</p>
<p>This is the last time they have sex.</p>
<p>Richie doesn’t say a word beyond ‘are you okay?’ throughout and that should be a sign.</p>
<p>Richie doesn’t kiss him when they finish and that should be a sign.</p>
<p>Richie doesn’t hold him afterwards, not until Stan grabs his forearm and guides him in. Not until Stan holds him closely and cards his fingers through his hair, knelt in the mess they made together. He holds him as Richie cries against his chest, silent sobs that shake his body.</p>
<p>That’s enough of a sign.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The waitress is refilling their water. Richie had been halfway through a story about beach trips and parking fees and a night in an LA cell but it’s all forgotten now. He smiles genuinely at the waitress instead, asks her how her shift is going. She responds to him, not politely but kindly. Richie has always had that effect on people.</p>
<p>Stan eyes her warily and thanks her politely when she leaves. She smiles a tight-lipped smile back.</p>
<p>“You didn’t dance with me,” he says when she’s gone.</p>
<p>“Huh?” Richie looks up at him momentarily, confused.</p>
<p>“That night at Bev,” Stan clarifies. Richie doesn’t look any more certain and Stan suddenly finds he can’t stand to look at him. Instead he looks back down to his dinner, pushing salad leaves onto his fork, attempting to wipe off the dressing that he asked for it without. “You danced with everyone in the room. You wouldn’t dance with me.”</p>
<p>Richie blinks at him. “You didn’t want to dance,” he says slowly, suddenly lacking his signature certainty, his nature of being sure of everything, the trait that always irritated Stan and that he now misses more than anything.</p>
<p>“Why would you think that?”</p>
<p>“Because you said you didn’t want to dance.”</p>
<p>“I always say that,” Stan says, the absurdity making him laugh a little. “When has that ever stopped you before? You used to make me dance at every party, even when I said I didn’t want to.”</p>
<p>Richie goes quiet then. He takes a drink of his water then sets the glass back down with a thud. He looks thoughtful in a way Stan forgot he could be – after a while his perception of Richie had started to blur, or more accurately, revert to the version of him Stan remembered from when they were children. That Richie was loud and brash and annoying. The one opposite him is diluted, leaning back in his seat.</p>
<p>“It’s not my job to make you do things, Stanley,” he says finally. His tone is light but his words bear a weight Stan isn’t prepared for. “Especially things you don’t want to do. I’m not your fucking – your fucking manic pixie dream girl. You are not Tom Hansen, or – or – shit, give me more examples.”</p>
<p>“Joel Barish?”</p>
<p>“Yes, or Nino Quincampoix.”</p>
<p>“Actually Amelie isn’t a manic pixie dream girl,” Stan corrects lightly, but Richie isn’t smiling back at him. Stan clears his throat. “You always used to challenge me, back when we were kids. You made me do shit I was too scared to do. I mean, mostly it was to spite you, and then it was to impress you, and then it was because I actually enjoyed doing it. It was always fun being your friend. No one else would’ve asked me to dance.”</p>
<p>He means it sincerely. When it comes to Richie, he means it all sincerely. Every word.</p>
<p>“Patty asked you to dance at prom.”</p>
<p>Stan rolls his eyes. “You know that’s not the same, that was prom dancing. Dancing with you – it was so different to that. It was-”</p>
<p>“Is everything okay with your meal?” Stan didn’t see the waitress coming and her grating voice in his ear takes him by surprise in the middle of his sentence. He has the urge to tell her to fuck off but Richie is already smiling at her, and nodding genuinely.</p>
<p>“It’s lovely, thank you,” he says, eagerly cutting back into the pink flesh of his steak, clearly thankful for the distraction.</p>
<p>“Steak not too rare?” she probes.</p>
<p>“No, it’s perfect. Very bloody,” Richie reassures and the waitress squawks an awkward bark of a laugh. It’s sharp in Stan’s ear, even in the din of the restaurant.</p>
<p>Richie’s eyes are fixed on him, eyebrows quirked a little, and the waitress doesn’t move on from their table to Stan presses his lips into a tight smile. “It’s fine,” he says, glancing down at his limp, overpriced salad, then back at the waitress who is still hovering. “It’s fine. We’re fine. Thank you.”</p>
<p>She finally gets the message and nods, scurrying off. Across the table Richie chuckles into a forkful of his steak.</p>
<p>“What?” Stan asks, but that just makes Richie laugh harder, a silent laugh, head bowed against the table.</p>
<p>“Nothing,” he says through the laugh.</p>
<p>“Seriously, Richie, what?” Stan protests as Richie snorts again, shaking his head a little.</p>
<p>“Just you… you’ve not changed,” he says finally. The laughter stops and instead he’s just smiling at him. A warm feeling settles into the pit of Stan’s stomach.</p>
<p>“At first I was just dancing so you would hold my hand,” he says suddenly. “Did you know that? In high school I always wanted you to hold my hand and you did. When we were dancing,”</p>
<p>“If you wanted me to hold your hand, Stan… You could’ve just asked,” Richie says, like it’s simple, like anything is that simple.</p>
<p>Stan’s voice sounds quiet in his own ears. “Will you hold my hand now?”</p>
<p>There’s a hesitation in Richie’s face, a pregnant pause and then he reaches out, takes Stan’s hand across the table and squeezes it tight. It feels like he never let go.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s something about parties Stan hates. The lights are always too dim, the music too loud, and there are too many people occupying a space that could be comfortably filled by six- seven, at a push. People his ages seem to thrive off doing things they will come to regret in the morning and parties seem to be a perfect breeding ground for that. On the sofa next to him, a girl from his tutor is straddling a senior he doesn’t recognise, shoving her tongue so deep in his throat that she might actually be fishing for his tonsils, or something she dropped down there earlier. Her car keys maybe. Stan snorts at the thought and sinks further into the couch.</p>
<p>In his hand the plastic cup crinkles. He rests it on his knee and watches the bubbles which float to the top of the cup. If someone put a gun to his head and demanded to know what was in the cup he wouldn’t be able to tell them. He dimly remembers pouring himself a drink in the kitchen but there had been a group of jocks by the fridge so he had grabbed the first bottle and poured. Whatever it is, it tastes sticky.</p>
<p>He hates drinking almost as much as he hates parties. Normally he arrives sober and leaves sober, and in between he chats pleasantly with people from his classes and tries to stop Richie and Bev getting into some sort of drinking contest. He doesn’t drink, he drives home with Mike and he tells his parents he had a pleasant evening hanging out in Eddie’s bedroom, or Richie’s backyard. It’s a fool proof plan.</p>
<p>He’s not going home tonight though, because the party is at Bill’s house, and Bill asked him to stay over and Stan said yes. He doesn’t know why he said yes. He hates parties, he hates staying up late, and he hates this time of night where all the couples seem to turn into feral cats.</p>
<p>He does know why he said yes, deep down. It’s the same reason he’s nursing another drink, the same reason why he can’t stop staring at Bill across the room, chatting up the girl from his social studies class – Patricia <em>Something</em>. He looks so laid back, leaning against his window sill, laughing at the girl’s jokes, talking about something Stan will never begin to understand.</p>
<p>“You’re mooning,” The voice in his ear is deep and penetrable in the din of the party. Next to him the sofa arm squeaks as Richie throws himself onto it, one leg still on the ground, holding him steady. Stan hasn’t seen Richie all night, hadn’t even seen him arrive. He knew he was coming, though, so his presence isn’t surprising. It’s actually a little comforting, Stan realises. He’s been alone since Mike left to go join a game of poker happening in the basement.</p>
<p>He blinks up to Richie. He’s dressed for the occasion, blue jeans, open shirt, white top underneath, looking less obnoxious than usual. “I’m not mooning,” he replies haughtily, before realising he’s not even sure what mooning is.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Richie nods, looking away and peering around the room. His leg bounces to the beat of the music. “You are mooning though.”</p>
<p>Stan wants to snap at his shit-eating grin but instead he rolls his eyes and presses further back onto the sofa. The alcohol was starting to make him feel sluggish but he feels awake around Richie, sharp and aware. “Define mooning.”</p>
<p>Richie gestures across the room, to where Bill is leaning in to whisper something to the girl opposite him, liquid in his cup splashing over the edge and spraying the two of them, making them both laugh. “You’ve been staring at Bill’s ass the entire night.”</p>
<p>“Sure Richie,” Stan says drily, rolling his eyes again, harder this time. He had been grateful for Richie’s presence but now he feels on edge. Something about Richie’s prying eyes rub him the wrong way. He wishes he could melt into the cushions of the couch.</p>
<p>“Okay maybe not his ass specifically,” Richie says, like the clarity makes Stan want to disappear any less. “You have been watching him all night though.”</p>
<p>“How do you know? Have you been watching me?”</p>
<p>Richie just shrugs. He’s holding a cup in his own hand and playing with it between his fingers. It moves like it’s weightless and empty. Stan opens his mouth to ask if he wants another.</p>
<p>“That’s creepy,” he says instead, which makes Richie laugh.</p>
<p>“I’m just looking out for you, Stanny,” and god, he hasn’t used that nickname since they were children. Sometimes Stan finds it hard to believe that he’s know Richie since he was a baby, and that Richie has known him that long too – they certainly haven’t been acting like it recently. Stan doesn’t know why he and Richie have grown apart in high school. They’re still friends, but it’s not the same. He misses when he knew the other boy inside and out, and when Richie knew him like that too, knew what he was thinking before Stan himself did.</p>
<p>“You’ve been drinking like there’s no tomorrow,” Richie is saying. Stan blinks and tries to force himself to focus. “I think I saw you do a shot earlier.”</p>
<p>The disbelief in his voice makes Stan feel indignant. “Bev game me some tequila. What’s wrong with drinking like there’s no tomorrow? We’re at a party, aren’t we?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, but normally you drink like there is a tomorrow and that you’re gonna have to wake up to take the kids to soccer practice and do your tax audits and have boring sex with your stuck-up wife,” Richie goes to take a sip from his drink and frowns when he finds it empty.</p>
<p>“I don’t have a wife. Or kids,” Stan feels the need to point it out. In case Richie forgot. He’s not sure why Richie would’ve forgot that he’s only a junior in high school.</p>
<p>“You know what I mean.”</p>
<p>The couple making out next to Stan finally seemed to get bored of the gross PDA as the two of them peel apart and stand up. The couch shifts at the changing balance. The girl grabs her much taller boyfriend by the bicep, pulling him in the direction of the stairs, clearly in search of a vacant bed. Stan can only hope it’s not the one he ends up sleeping in tonight.</p>
<p>The couch next to him shifts again as Richie throws himself down on the empty half. He sets his cup down on the floor beside it and rests his forearms on his legs, which are spread uncomfortably wide. Stan presses his knees tighter together.</p>
<p>He feels his eyes drawn again to Bill across the room, now moving from the edge of his view to the dead centre, introducing the girl next to him – it’s <em>Patricia Something</em>, Stan is sure of it – to some more of his friends. Richie’s eyes follow his gaze and Stan swears he sees Richie smiling.</p>
<p>“I’m not mooning over him,” he hears himself snap abrasively. “Bill. I don’t have a – a crush on him or anything,” he finds himself having to force the words out. It’s the first time he’s even dared to utter the idea out loud. It seems ludicrous, falling flat in front of his friend. His voice seems shaky and the lie seems blatantly false – Richie knows. He wonders numbly whether Richie will stand on the coffee table and announce the revelation to everyone.</p>
<p>“Stanley, it’s okay,” Richie says instead. Hesitantly he sets a hand on Stan’s knee. It’s heavy, daunting and yet – reassurance. This is acceptance, maybe, in its purest form. Stan hates it.</p>
<p>“Don’t you have someone else to bother?” he shrugs Richie’s grip off him, folding one leg over the other. “What happened to Eddie?”</p>
<p>Richie reaches a hand behind his head to itch the back of his neck. “He uh – he had to go home. Sonia called my house and realised he wasn’t there. Flipped her shit,” he laughs, a nervous, tinny laugh laced with anxiety.</p>
<p>“Is he okay?” Stan frowns, even though the answer is obvious. He imagines how his own parents would react if they found out he lied about where he was, if he drank. And his parents aren’t even half like Sonia.</p>
<p>“Not really,” Richie blows out a breath and a laugh. There’s that laugh again, Stan thinks. He’s always laughing, but rarely is there a joke before it. “He’d had a bit to drink, and he was a fucking mess when he left. Wouldn’t even let me walk him home. Apparently it’s my fault, I made him come-”</p>
<p>“Bullshit,” he feels his voice catch on the last syllable and pauses to take a sip off his drink. The taste is sweet and acidic. “You didn’t make him come.”</p>
<p>It’s true. Richie may be a pain in the ass, and he may be persistent, but Eddie had been just as eager to finally come to a high school party. He’d practically jumped at Richie’s offer of an alibi and had spent the entire week prior talking of nothing but the party. It isn’t Richie’s fault.</p>
<p>Richie looks down at his hands. “Made him play beer pong though. And made him drink when he didn’t want to. He’s okay though, Ben’s walking him home.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry Richie,” Stan says, trying to sound sincere through the layers of alcohol in his voice.</p>
<p>Richie looks up in surprise. “What?” he says, brows furrows, before clocking Stan’s tightly knit look of sympathy. He shakes his head. “No, no, don’t apologise-”</p>
<p>“I know you were really looking forward to tonight and I’m really sorry it didn’t work out for-” Stan tries to push on. Richie had been excited for tonight – unusually so. Stan hadn’t understood why. It’s just another party, just another night of annoying classmates and people throwing up on rugs. Maybe because it was the first party with all the losers together. Maybe because Eddie and Richie have always been close in an odd way that Stan doesn’t quite understand.</p>
<p>“Stan, seriously, if you start suddenly being nice to me I might cry,” Richie says abruptly. That throws him.</p>
<p>“I’m always nice to you,” Stan says slowly, sounding out the words so he doesn’t slur, or choke on them.</p>
<p>“You’re not. But it’s okay, Stanley. It’s just how you are,” Richie says with a sad, twisted smile. Stan frowns. What does that mean, he wants to ask but Richie is already slapping his knees and hauling himself off the couch. “Fuck. This is a party. We should be having fun. Come on, come dance with me.”</p>
<p>“What?” Stan manages. Richie is stood up now, grinning down at him. He looks so much like the normal Richie Stan is used to, so unlike the sad boy who was just sat next to him on the couch that it startles Stan a little.</p>
<p>“It’ll take your mind off Bill,” Richie says, jerking his head to where Bill is stood at the edge of a circle of other people. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”</p>
<p>He’s grinning now, tapping his foot to the old rock playing, still not moving from in front of Stan.</p>
<p>“I don’t dance.”</p>
<p>“Not even after five-” Richie reaches forward and pries the plastic cup from Stan’s hands. He sniffs it, wrinkling his nose at the smell. “-Malibu Cokes? Seriously Stanley, even my mother wouldn’t drink this shit, who was pouring you drinks?”</p>
<p>“What if I deck it in front of everyone?” Stan says, electing to ignore his jab. He wants to dance with Richie – in this moment he really does, but he can’t seem to will himself to move, no matter how much he wants it.</p>
<p>Richie extends his hands out to him like an olive branch. “You won’t,” he insists, voice soft but audible over the music. “I’ll make sure you don’t. Promise.”</p>
<p>So he takes Richie’s hands and allows him to pull him into the centre of Bill’s living room. There’s music playing but no one is dancing. A few girls bop by the wall, bouncing and rocking on their heels but nothing more. Still, Richie throws his arms in the air and moves his body in a way that should be obnoxious but that Stan finds a little endearing.</p>
<p>“Richie, I don’t know what I’m doing,” he shouts over the music. Now that he’s on his feet he can feel the alcohol pulsing in his veins, making him dizzy. Richie just laughs at him, head tipped back, and Stan doesn’t even feel self-conscious.</p>
<p>“Move your feet for a start,” Richie replies, turning his body slightly and beginning to move his feet in a rapid, almost demonic way.</p>
<p>Stan forces down a laugh that bubbles in his throat and tries to sound annoyed. “I told you I don’t know how to dance,” he says, voice rising hysterically at the end of his sentence.</p>
<p>“Here, I’ll show you,” Richie grins and begins to move again, this time with more fervour. He dances erratically, whole body convulsing, uncaring of who sees. Near the wall the group of girls’ giggle as they watch him. Stan feels a blush rising to his cheeks. He snorts and tries to take a step towards Richie but the drink gets the best of him and his steps falters.</p>
<p>“Woah, woah, careful there my man,” Richie’s breath is warm in his ear, hands clamped around his waist to keep him upright. Stan doesn’t try to pull away, but does lift his head so he can see Richie properly. In the darkness of the room his brown eyes look imperceptibly dark, too black holes in the centre of his face.</p>
<p>“I feel dizzy,” Stan says when he finally stops looking in Richie’s eyes.</p>
<p>“I think you’re a little drunk,” Richie replies, smile playing at his lips as he helps Stan right himself.</p>
<p>“Thanks captain obvious,” Stan rolls his eyes and nearly topples again. This time Richie holds him by the shoulders, one hand holding onto his side like he may fall at any time.</p>
<p>“Alcohol doesn’t seem to change your personality too much,” Richie points out with a smirk that Stan can’t find the heart to be annoyed at.</p>
<p>“You neither,” he returns, which makes Richie laugh.</p>
<p>“It would if I were actually drinking.”</p>
<p>“You’re sober?” the idea is baffling to Stan. It never even occurred to him that Richie could be sober, that he could dance like that without a liquid ounce of alcohol in his bloodstream. He wonders if Richie was drinking at Ripsom’s party where he streaked down the street, or if he was even a little drunk at the party where he made out with Bev. Mostly, though, it makes him wonder how anyone can be so wild naturally.</p>
<p>Richie jerks his head in the direction of the window. “Designated driver. How else would I get home?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t think of that,” Stan laughs. Richie is still holding on to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his waist. He’s still moving too, almost imperceptibly swaying to the beat of the music. It’s too up-tempo to slow dance to but Richie seems to be making it work.</p>
<p>“What about you?”</p>
<p>“I was just gonna crash here.”</p>
<p>“At Bill’s?” Richie’s lip quirks at the suggestion and Stan rolls his eyes so hard they practically rotate into the back of his skull. He knows if he turns around now he could watch Bill at the side of the room but for the first time all night he doesn’t want to.</p>
<p>“Fucking beep beep Richie,” he laughs, even though it’s not funny, not really, not when you stop and think about it. He closes his eyes in a long blink and inhales. His mouth tastes stale and he can feel his heart beating against his ribcage. He doesn’t know what it’s from – the alcohol, or the fear. “Does everyone know?”</p>
<p>“That you’re hopelessly in love with Bill?” Richie says quietly, leaning in a little so the words only reach Stan. If it’s a joke, it’s not a funny one.</p>
<p>“I’m not – I’m not in love with him,” Stan replies. He blinks again, keeping his eyes closed for longer, hoping that if he screws them up tight enough this moment will be over. He doesn’t dare to look at Richie, or at Bill, so he keeps his eyes shut and draws in a tight breath.</p>
<p>“No one knows Stan,” Richie is murmuring, the music filling the empty space around them.</p>
<p>He opens his eyes and blinks at Richie, who looks blurry in the lights, despite how close he is. He’s not smiling, but he’s not frowning either, he’s just looking. “How come you know?”</p>
<p>The corners of his mouth upturn just a little. “Guess I just know what it looks like… to like someone who will never like you back.”</p>
<p>The masked confession hangs heavy in the air. “Richie-” Stan tries to say, but Richie cuts him off with a wave of the hand. He lets go of Stan’s shoulders and suddenly his body feels heavier.</p>
<p>“No, no, I don’t want to talk about that. I want to dance,” he grabs at Stan’s hand again, folding it into his so tightly, urging him to dance.</p>
<p>“Richie-” Stan protests, but he’s cut short again by Richie thrashing his body about.</p>
<p>“Richie,” he tries again and the other boy finally stops, looking up at him with hair covering his face. He stares at Stan like he’s going to say something that will change his life, that will fix him, that will make him stop loving Eddie, like anything Stan could say would possibly do that. Instead Stan presses a hand to the base of his throat and gags. “I’m gonna throw up.”</p>
<p>He finds himself bent over a trashcan in Bill’s kitchen, unsure how he even made it there, emptying the contents of his stomach. He’s vaguely aware of Richie’s presence behind him, his hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles against his sweater. It’s just him and Richie in the kitchen – everyone there had evacuated when he started chucking up.</p>
<p>“There you go, get it all out,” Richie’s voice is muffled through the sound of blood rushing in his own ears but his presence is still reassuring. Stan leans forward again, stomach pressed against the metal of the can, wishing he had made it to the toilet instead, or at least something easier to clean out. The thought of Bill scrubbing at the can tomorrow makes his face flush with embarrassment.</p>
<p>There’s the sound of the door swinging open and Stan can hear the music from the living room clearer for a second before it slides shut again.</p>
<p>“Juh- Jesus Christ Stuh- Stan,” Bill’s voice is jarring. He sounds concerned, which just makes Stan feel worse. “Are yuh- you oh- okay?”</p>
<p>He wants to tell Bill to get out, that he doesn’t want him to see him like this. He wants to say he’s sorry, too, and mostly he just wants to sit and cry about how awful this night has been, and think about how happy dancing with Richie had made him feel.</p>
<p>He opens his mouth to say anything, though, and is hit by another wave of nausea that has him leaning back over the trash can.</p>
<p>“He’s fine,” Richie says for him, hand still smoothing at his back. “Just too much to drink,”</p>
<p>“God, I knew I shouldn’t have given him that shot,” Bev is saying, and god, when did she get here? Stan rocks back on his heels and wipes at his mouth, still keeping his eyes focused on the metal of the trashcan, not wanting to look back and see his friends staring at him.</p>
<p>“Duh- don’t beat yuh- yourself up Bev,” Bill says, his voice slightly muffled. Stan can imagine him hugging Bev, voice catching in her hair or against the soft fabric of her shirt. He feels a spike of jealousy in the centre of his chest.</p>
<p>He feels a new hand on his shoulder and starts. He shifts a little and sees that Mike is crouched next to him. His eyes are full of concern, not pity. “Stan, you okay man?” he says softly. Stan nods, and sniffles a little. He doesn’t feel sick anymore, just embarrassed and tired.</p>
<p>“Rich, could you get him some water?” Mike asks him, and the soothing hand on his back vanishes, instead replaced by the sound of a gushing faucet and the clinking of glasses. Stan shakes Mike’s hand off his shoulder and slumps back against the cabinet next to him. He sees for the first time that Bill has him arm slung around Bev’s shoulder and the familiar feeling of jealous settles in the pit of his stomach.</p>
<p>“I’m so sorry, Bill,” he manages to say, voice cracking halfway through. Mike is still crouched next to him, and Bev’s eyes are wide with sympathy, but the only person he can look at is Bill.</p>
<p>“It’s oh-okay,” Bill says, at the exact moment Richie brushes past him and presses a glass of tepid water into his hand.</p>
<p>“Don’t apologise, Stanny,” Richie says. Stan wants to protest – he should apologise; he threw up in Bill’s kitchen – but he realises he doesn’t actually know what it was he was apologising for. For liking Bill? For loving him, even? In this moment everything feels bigger than him, and too big to handle after throwing up for sure.</p>
<p>“You should probably take him home,” Bev is saying, like he isn’t even in the room.</p>
<p>Mike shakes his head. “Can’t take him home. Donald would flip his shit.”</p>
<p>Christ, Stan hasn’t even thought was his dad would say about all of this and he doesn’t want to. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes to try and block out the thoughts of how disappointed his father would be in him.</p>
<p>“Pluh- Plus nuh- none of us are suh- suh- sober en-enough to drive. It’s uh-okay, he wuh-was guh-guh-gonna crash here an-anyways.”</p>
<p>“With a party going on downstairs?”</p>
<p>“Mike’s got a point.”</p>
<p>“Cuh- can’t he stuh- stay with yuh- you, Mike?”</p>
<p>“I’m way over the limit, I was gonna walk home in the morning.”</p>
<p>“Then I guh- guess he’ll juh- just have to stuh- stay huh- here.”</p>
<p>“He can stay at mine,” Richie says suddenly. His voice is further away than the others and when Stan cracks his eyes open he sees that he’s hovering by the sink still. “I’ve got a spare mattress under my bed.”</p>
<p>“Is it safe for you to drive?” Bev asks sceptically.</p>
<p>Richie nods a little. “I’ve only had one beer.”</p>
<p>“Yuh- yuh- you don’t hu-have to do that Ruh-Richie,” Bill says. His voice has an edge to it, an odd quality that Stan doesn’t understand; reluctance, or apprehension.</p>
<p>“I want to,” Richie insists, with a certainty that shocks him. He gestures vaguely towards him. “It’s Stan.”</p>
<p>“Whu- what about your fuh- folks?”</p>
<p>“Went won’t mind. Mags basically worships the ground he walks on,” Richie shrugs. Stan can’t remember the last time he visited Richie’s house, or talked to his parents. Maybe the year that they all went to high school and left him behind in eighth grade. That was the last time he remembers being alone with Richie in his bedroom, listening to Went’s old vinyl collection and talking shit. He still doesn’t know what fell apart between them – when did they stop being best friends? What can Stan do to get it back?</p>
<p>Bill is crouched in front of him now, eyes fixed on his, hands stabilising himself on his knees. “Stuh- Stan? What do yuh- you wuh-want to duh-do?”</p>
<p>He knows he could stay here with Bill, maybe even curl up in the bed next to him. It’s what he’s been waiting for all night – maybe for all his life – but in this moment he doesn’t want it.</p>
<p>“I want to stay with Richie,” he says instead, nodding towards the other boy.</p>
<p>“You sure man?” Richie asks, sounding unsure of himself. Stan feels unsure too, but still he nods, and takes the other boys outstretched hands, holding on to them tightly like they’re his final lifeline.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re still holding my hand.”</p>
<p>“I’ll let go when the cheque comes.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p> “So, Jane mentioned that you’re an accountant? Sounds fun.”</p>
<p>Stan fidgets with his collar, feeling hot and uncomfortable. He doesn’t know whether it’s the heat in the restaurant – the host had told them that the air conditioning was broken when they came in – or how uncomfortable he feels but he knows now that a tie was a bad idea. He wonders if it would be weird to loosen it or take it off completely, but that doesn’t seem particularly polite given the situation.</p>
<p>Instead he messes with his top button and tries to smile at his date across their appetizers. Food has never looked so unappealing as it does now, with a friendly, clean shaven man watching him, with the waitresses and the restaurant filled with the buzz of a first date.</p>
<p>He’s never been good at this. Back in college he used to date other people – if you could call them dates. They were mostly girls Bev set him up with, awkward dates that ended with a hug, or handshake, or – on one mortifying occasion – a high five. Stan isn’t sure whether that was just Bev’s way of trying to uncover his sexuality or what, but it was enough to convince him to stop pretending to be straight.</p>
<p>“It’s not,” Stan reaches for his glass of water, throat like sandpaper. He sees the uncomfortable shift in the other man’s face and tries again. “It’s – it’s okay,”</p>
<p>“Is that what you trained in?”</p>
<p>He feels like he’s cheating on Richie. He feels like he’s cheating which is insane because it’s been months since he’s even seen Richie, but still he feels this sick guilt in his stomach. His hand ghosts over his phone, nestled in his pocket, as though Richie is going to call now, in the middle of this date, even though he hasn’t called in months.</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah, it’s what I want to college for. All four years,” Stan says, feeling the tightness in his own words.</p>
<p>The man smiles. It’s a nice smile – friendly, like he’s known Stan for years. “And there was me just going to college for the sex, drugs and parties,”</p>
<p>“No, no, I didn’t mean – what do you do?”</p>
<p>“I’m in real estate,” the man says. Stan isn’t sure what he was expecting – isn’t sure why the answer suddenly makes his world feel very small.</p>
<p>“Wow,” Stan says, for lack of something better to say.</p>
<p>“It’s good pay. Massive bonuses too,” the man says. He’s bragging, Stan realises. He’s trying to make himself sound fun, and rich, and <em>alpha</em>. He’s making himself sound like a tool.  “And I get to look inside all these swanky houses. You wouldn’t believe the size of some people’s houses on the east side. Mansions.”</p>
<p>“My house – the house the company are putting me up in, that’s – that’s pretty big,” Stan says, unsure why he’s nervously tripping over his own words.</p>
<p>“Maybe I should come have a look at that, then,” the man quirks an eyebrow and the sick feeling is back, working its way up his throat. He wants to call Richie and beg for his forgiveness, as though that’s his to give anymore. Instead he picks up his fork and stabs at a garlic mushroom.</p>
<p>“Anything’s big compared to my flat in New York though,” he says, trying to distract.</p>
<p>It works. The man leans forward, like his interest has piqued. “Oh you’re a new Yorker?”</p>
<p>“I’m from Maine, originally, but I lived in New York for – what? Six years before moving down here?”</p>
<p>“Oh?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah. They really pack you in like sardines up there. It’s a nice change, being here,” he gestures around himself. It’s true, he realises. It’s fall and yet the restaurant has a warmth to it, a smoky breeze, just the right temperature to leave the house without a jacket.</p>
<p>It’s not just the weather though. Part of him feels at ease here – the way he never did in New York, or Maine, the way he never could have in California. There’s something in the air here. Something that makes Stan feel cautiously optimistic.</p>
<p>“What made you leave New York?”</p>
<p>“I got this job offer. Too good to refuse, really,” Stan shrugs. He considers leaving it at that – he should really leave it at that – “And I broke up with my boyfriend.”</p>
<p>“Serious relationship?”</p>
<p>“Pretty serious, yeah.”</p>
<p>“How long were you two together?”</p>
<p>“One year. Officially. Unofficially – since my junior year I guess,” he tries to say it casually.</p>
<p>“Jesus,” the other man breathes out with a hysterical little laugh. He doesn’t say anything for a while and Stan can feel himself being surveyed as he stares down at his empty plate. “So you’ve never… been with anyone else?”</p>
<p>“Not unless you count my senior year prom date,” Stan says, which he wouldn’t, because he never even did anything with Patty. He couldn’t. There was too much guilt, too much fear of lying to her about being gay, about being in love, about being too scared to even try with someone else.</p>
<p>“I can’t imagine being with someone for that long,” the man across from his says. Stan realises he doesn’t even know his name. He must have said it when they met and Jane must have mentioned it when she gave Stan his number, but now he can’t recall it. “That’s like – marriage.”</p>
<p>“We weren’t really together as such. It was – we just hooked up for a while,” Stan says. It’s the truth and yet it still gets lodged in his throat like it’s a secret. “Sorry, I really shouldn’t be talking about my ex, this is a date-”</p>
<p>“No no, don’t worry about it,” the man says, smiling as he does. He reminds Stan of Mike, always there to listen, never expecting much in return. “As long as you don’t sneak into the bathroom and call your ex for a booty call whilst I wait out here, we’re good.”</p>
<p>“That’s happened to you?” Stan asks in disbelief.</p>
<p>“Twice. My fault, shouldn’t have agreed to a second date,” he deadpans. It takes Stan a second to realise it’s a joke. It isn’t even that funny, but it still startles the deep laugh from Stan, harder than he has in a long time, which makes the man laugh too. “If you want to talk about your ex we can. It can be therapeutic to get this shit off your chest.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, people keep telling me that,” Stan rolls his eyes, laughter still bubbling. The man laughs too. “No, no. This is a date I don’t want to – tell me about your ex,” he suggests, suddenly feeling a little hysterical.</p>
<p>“The hoarder or the arsonist?”</p>
<p>“Jesus Christ.”</p>
<p>“See, you’re not the only gay guy in Kingsland with baggage,” the man says, his voice kind in a way that lets Stan knows that it’s okay, that he’s going to get through this date, and many more, and he won’t always feel as guilty as he does now, just for laughing. “Now, which one?”</p>
<p>“The arsonist.”</p>
<p>“Good choice.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Stan declines a desert menu in favour of asking the hardest question. “Have you been… seeing other people?”</p>
<p>To his surprise Richie laughs, deep and throaty. “No – I mean, yeah, but they’ve all been shit dates. Doesn’t really count. I don’t really want to do them but Steve – he’s my manager now – said it would be good for my work to play the field. A lot of comedy to be written from shitty dates. Lotta anecdotes. I normally leave straight after starters, let them pick up the tab.”</p>
<p>He shrugs, looking back down at the desert menu, browsing it like he might actually order something. Stan wouldn’t mind the meal stretching out. He’s becoming all too aware that this cruel ‘date’ is going to be their last, and that once it’s done and they’ve said all that needs to be said, it’s over. Maybe Richie will order a desert. Maybe this will last a little longer.</p>
<p>“Do you climb out the bathroom windows?” He asks drily.</p>
<p>“Once or twice. The staff normally let you use a service door if you ask nicely. What about you? You seeing anyone yet?” Richie raises his eyebrows at him, like it’s a challenge of who will rebound first.</p>
<p>“No,” Stan says, unsure of why he’s lying but unable to stop what has already started. He can feel Richie’s eyes on him, can feel them going through him and he’s suddenly scared he’s caught in a lie. “I met up with Patty for dinner a couple of weeks back,” he says instead, needing to relieve at least one of his secrets.</p>
<p>Richie guffaws at this like it’s the best news he’s he heard in years. “Patricia Blum? High school Patty?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t know she was a southern bell now,” Richie says in one of his stupid accents, a heavy Texas one that sounds absurd. God, Stan has missed those voices. Not that he can let Richie know that.</p>
<p>“Me neither. I ran into her at Walmart,” Stan pushes a few stray salad leaves around his bowl. The overfriendly waitress had brought them desert menus but still hasn’t cleared their plates. Stan doesn’t mind. It gives him something to do with his hands.</p>
<p>Richie eyes him across the table, lips quirking into a smirk. “Romantic.” He knows Richie is teasing but the tone grates on him.</p>
<p>“She’s married now,” Stan says sharply. Then he adds; “And a lesbian,”</p>
<p>That flaws Richie for a second. “Wow,” he says, then whistles lowly. “Didn’t see that one coming. Does that make you each other’s beards in high school?”</p>
<p>“We never even dated. We just… hooked up at prom,” Stan tries to brush it off but he can feel his face flushing. The hook up with Patty on prom night had been the worst. They just hadn’t fit together. Stan was sharp and clumsy, and Patty was soft and shy. She had complained his hands were too cold and he had tried to warm them under the faucet, but that had just made them wet, which made Patty laugh.</p>
<p>It didn’t help that the prom after party had been hosted at Richie’s house, and the only hook up spot available had been Richie’s bedroom. Richie hadn’t even seemed to care when Stan asked Patty to prom, and he seemed to care even less when he ushered them to his bedroom and made a big show of putting a sock on the door knob. That had hurt Stan – how he could suck him off in his bedroom one day, and then the next he didn’t seem to care if he had sex with Patty.</p>
<p>“You know what I realised the other day?” Richie’s voice startles Stan from his chain of thought. “I’ve never actually been on a proper date. I’ve always just been with you, never really did the dating thing.”</p>
<p>Stan tries not to linger on the ‘always been with you part’.</p>
<p>“What about Lottie? Second year of college?”</p>
<p>“That doesn’t count. She used to blow me in movie theatres and then harass my mother on Facebook,” Richie waves it off with his desert menu.</p>
<p>“Sounds like a relationship to me.”</p>
<p>“I never took you on a proper date, either. We just used to hang out.”</p>
<p>“Isn’t that what dating is?”</p>
<p>“Sure, but we never did any of this,” Richie gestures around himself, and the restaurant, and the easy jazz music.</p>
<p>“Does this make this our first date?” Stan asks.</p>
<p>Richie smiles at that idea. “I guess so.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“Do you think we fit together?”</p>
<p>Richie stares down at him. Maybe it’s the three Screwdrivers, but his eyes look crinkly to Stan, the flesh folding and rippling in an odd way. His face is so close, so clear, glasses slipping off the bridge of his nose, eyes hazy from the alcohol intake.</p>
<p>They’re sat on Richie’s bed – well, Richie is, Stan is laid out, head in the other boy’s lap. Richie’s knees are bony, and Stan would complain about that any other time, but now he feels… content. Soon, Richie’s parents will be home and Stan will have to sidle past them pretending to be sober. Now, though, he can lie on Richie’s lap and stare at his him, and at the old galaxy stickers on his ceiling.</p>
<p>“What do you mean, Stanny?”</p>
<p>Richie is definitely less drunk than him. He has a higher intake and normally that makes Stan pissy, but not now. Now he’s content to stare up at Richie’s smug little smirk. He raises a hand and presses his fingers against the softness of the other boys face. Richie grabs his fingers gently, and interlocks them with his own. That’s new. They’ve never done held hands before. Sure, they’ve kissed before, both drunk and sober, on dares and in private and behind a bowling alley once. Not this. This is different – intimate. Stan likes it a lot.</p>
<p>“If you saw us in the street, or like – I don’t know, stop looking at me like that, I’m not crazy – if you knew us from a distance would you – would you think we <em>fit</em>?”</p>
<p>Richie laughs. This close up Stan can see his laughter lines. His clothes smell of smoke and the reek is endearing in its own way. Part of Stan hopes that it clings to his own shirt if he presses himself close enough. He wriggles a little in effort.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what that means. If you mean what do other people think of us, who gives a shit? Who gives a fuck what they think?”</p>
<p>He shuffles sluggishly under Stan’s weight. There’s that urge again to touch every inch of his skin like he’ll never get another chance. He does, pressing his fingertips against the bridge of his nose. Richie smiles into it. Stan moves his fingers down to his lips. He hopes Richie understands and leans down to kiss him. He doesn’t.</p>
<p>Years later, in an empty flat in a new state, 2461 miles from Richie, Stan wonders what would have happened if he had just leant up and kissed him.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey, how’s the – watch where you’re fucking going dude, Jesus!”</p>
<p>Bill, to his credit, pulls the receiver away from his ear when he hollers. It still makes Stan wince. In the background of the call he can hear the sound of the road, car horns blaring, and the unmistakable sound of some lady yelling back at Bill. Up until he moved to New York Stan had thought the movies were all bullshit, and that people would actually be much friendlier. If anything, they were worse. Bill, for such a mild mannered and charming boy, had taken the rude New-Yorker style of life into his stride.</p>
<p>“I can call back later, if you’re busy,” Stan says. He’s sat in his car which is still parked in the lot of the grocery store. He had been half-way around the store when he dumped his cart. Grocery shopping isn’t his thing, and he hates the rows of different products with different prices, and Richie always used to come with him. His throat had closed up and he’d left to call Bill straight away. He didn’t tell Bill this part. He’d just said he was bored.</p>
<p>“No, no, I’m good. It’s – Jesus Christ, pick a side lady! – You know how New York is,” Bill says with a laugh. “Well, you did. Have you gone fully native yet?”</p>
<p>“Not yet, no.”</p>
<p>“Not started eating gravy and biscuits and talking like a farm hand?”</p>
<p>“No, but there’s still time,” it didn’t hit him today how much he misses Bill. He misses how easy it is to talk to him. He’s been in Kingsland for six weeks now. That’s the longest they’ve ever been apart since they were kids.</p>
<p>“Do you miss it?”</p>
<p>“New York? Yeah. The food, mainly. And you guys.” He tacks on, voice sounding heavier than he meant it time. Bill must notice this, because he can hear the phone shifting in his hand, and he sounds brighter when he talks again.</p>
<p>“Did you hear about Mike’s new job?”</p>
<p>“He called me yesterday.”</p>
<p>Mike’s new job. In Florida. Only a state away from Stan himself. It’s almost too good to be true, and it makes part of him wonder if Mike is moving there just to keep tabs on him. That’s absurd, though. Friends don’t move states just to check up on someone. Hell, Stan couldn’t even move to California for Richie, and he’s loved him since they were kids -</p>
<p> “Everyone is migrating. What’s wrong with New York?”</p>
<p>“It’s exhausting,” Stan says truthfully, glancing out the car window. He’s one of three cars left in the parking lot, and he’s certainly the only one sitting like a sad sack in his car. He wonders if the shop clerks think he looks suspicious.</p>
<p>“But exciting,” Bill reasons. He really is a New-Yorker at heart. “How’s the job going?”</p>
<p>Stan laughs, “You don’t want to hear me talk about my job.”</p>
<p>“Yeah I do,” Bill argues back.</p>
<p>“No you don’t, Bill. It’s okay, it’s a boring job.”</p>
<p>Richie used to listen to him talk about accounting till the early hours of the morning, even though he hates math. He used to listen though, carding his fingers through Stan’s hair, or making dinner, or working on his material at the kitchen table. Once he let Stan rant about a particularly tricky account when he was in the shower. Stan used to listen to his material, too, even though he doesn’t find much of it funny. Richie didn’t care. He would only keep the parts that made Stan smile.</p>
<p>“But you like it?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. I do,” He says, because he does. He loves the job. It’s his dream job. He just wishes he were present enough to enjoy it. He cried in the bath last night, when he should’ve been at a gala dinner. He had the suit hung up and ready to go, steam pressed and everything. He couldn’t bring himself to put it on. Not without Richie there to help tie his tie.</p>
<p>“That’s all that matters then. How are you – how are you holding up?”</p>
<p>“I wrote him a letter this morning.”</p>
<p>“A letter?”</p>
<p>“My therapist said it was a good idea,” he pauses, then adds, “I think it’s a shit idea.”</p>
<p>There’s more shuffling on the other end of the line, then Bill’s voice is clearer in the speaker. The noise from the street has died down, which means he’s probably inside now. Is he going to his publishers? Home to his fiancée? To their friends? “What is a letter meant to do?”</p>
<p>“It’s meant to mean closure. I don’t like her. I think I’m going to get a new therapist. Her office is always full of candles. Lit candles. That’s a safety hazard right there.”</p>
<p>His therapist would call that deflection. Bill doesn’t rise to it.</p>
<p>“Did it help?”</p>
<p>“The candles?”</p>
<p>“No, the letter.”</p>
<p>“Oh. I don’t know. A little. It just made me miss him more than anything. I never realised until – until this how much we used to just… talk. About everything. I still find myself turning over in bed to read him something and then remembering he’s not there. I’ve started talking to myself, too. That’s bad, right? That’s a sign I’m going crazy, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>A peel of laughter, tinny through the receiver. “A little, yeah.”</p>
<p>“I’ll just have to get a cat or something. Fill up the space.”</p>
<p>He hates cats. Richie used to beg for them to get a dog. Stan always said no, but they both knew he’d give in eventually. He wonders if Richie will get a dog now, in his big spacious California apartment, the one they had chosen out together.</p>
<p>“Stan?”</p>
<p>“Hmm?” He hums, when he realises Bill is expecting him to say something.</p>
<p>“It’s okay to still miss him. It’s only been a few months. You guys were together for years.”</p>
<p>“Only a year,” he corrects.</p>
<p>“Okay, only a year officially,” Bill says with a sigh. Stan can practically hear the eye roll. “Still. You’re allowed to miss him.”</p>
<p>Bill pauses, like he’s waiting for Stan to say something. He can’t think of what to say.</p>
<p>“I’ll tell Richie to call you,” Bill says after a little while, ignoring Stan’s noises of protest. He’s gotten good at that, over the years. “I’ll tell Richie to call you. I’ve got to go now, Stan, I’m sorry. Maybe we could meet up for dinner next time you’re in the city?”</p>
<p>“That would be nice,” Stan says, because he has to say something.</p>
<p>“Okay, love you man, bye, bye.”</p>
<p>Bill hangs up the phone before Stan can say love you back.</p>
<p>People have been doing that to him an awful lot lately.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“Okay, we have to be at Eddie and Bill’s dorm in less than ten minutes, so maybe you want to start getting dressed.”</p>
<p>Richie groans from where he’s sprawled across his bed, torso still bare, bedsheet covering his exposed legs. He doesn’t make to move and instead just catches the towel Stan tosses him, letting it drop onto his stomach. Realistically they could both use a long shower to clean up properly from the mess they just made but there’s no time. If they’re late to Eddie and Bill’s there’ll only be questions and Stan is still too tired from the drive to think.</p>
<p>“Can’t we just stay here? I’m so comfy,” Richie groans again as his scrubs at his stomach in a futile attempt to clean himself up. He’s been laid down so long at this point that he’s probably going to need a scouring pad to get the stuff off his stomach, but Stan doesn’t mention this.</p>
<p>Instead he keeps rooting through Richie’s drawer for a spare shirt. Richie had pulled his off him the minute they were back in the dorm room and pulled a few buttons loose in the process. Stan doesn’t know how he’s going to explain that to his mom when he gets home, and he hasn’t brought enough shirts for the whole week he’s crashing with Richie.</p>
<p>“God, I’m so exhausted,” Richie moans. “Do we even have to go? It’s just dinner with people we see all the time,”</p>
<p>“I haven’t seen them since winter break,” Stan points out, pausing his rooting to fix Richie with a stare.</p>
<p>“It sucks that you’re still at school,” Richie says instead of protesting.</p>
<p>“You’re telling me.” School had sucked at the best of times but it’s a whole other level without his friends to help him wade through the bullshit. He’s got Patty, though, and the promise of freedom within the next year. He’s fine. He’s getting through.</p>
<p>“Next year though, right? You’re gonna move up here?”</p>
<p>“Just try and stop me,” Stan says, like he isn’t still waiting for his NYU acceptance letter. His dad wants him to go somewhere like Harvard or Yale but he hasn’t applied for a reason. He wants to go to NYU, and if he doesn’t get in he’ll just move up anyway. He doesn’t need college. He needs his friends. He needs –</p>
<p>Richie has a strange look on his face. “Good. It’s not the same without you here.”</p>
<p>For a moment he sounds like he’s going to say something else, but instead his voice trails off. Stan doesn’t question it.</p>
<p>“Do you have any clean clothes?” he asks over his shoulder instead.</p>
<p>Richie strains to sit up, grumbling under his breath. “What are you, my mom?”</p>
<p>“I’m trying to find a shirt I could wear,” Stan explains, closing the top drawer and starting on the one below, which is messier and crammed with odd socks. Richie stands and stretches, yawning in an obnoxiously exaggerated way. “You tore the buttons off mine.”</p>
<p>Richie shrugs slowly as he rounds on Stan from behind, hands resting on his waist. “You weren’t going fast enough.”</p>
<p>Stan sighs irritably, refusing to melt back into the embrace. Richie doesn’t move and Stan can still feel his breath hot on his neck. Instinctively he reaches a hand up and brushes it against his skin. He can practically hear Richie smirk in his ear in response.</p>
<p>“You didn’t give me much of a chance,” he replies, trying not to give into Richie’s ploy to get him back to bed, no matter how heated it’s making him feel. They still have to be at Eddie and Bill’s soon.</p>
<p>“How about if I give you a chance now?” Richie’s fingers trace lightly over the bare shoulder, warm on his cold skin. He presses a soft kiss to his jaw, gentle and barely palpable. It’s more tender than anything Stan has ever felt.</p>
<p>He turns around in the thin space between Richie’s body and the dresser, back pressing against the wood. “No time,” he says, as innocently as he can muster. Richie rolls his eyes but obligingly backs off, heading into the bathroom. He leaves the door open. Stan can hear the faucet gushing.</p>
<p>“Richie,” he knocks against the frame. “Shirt?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yeah,” he replies distractedly over the stream of the water. “Try Michael’s side. I’m sure you’ll find something there.”</p>
<p>Stan glances across the room to Richie’s roommates side of the room. It’s noticeably more tidy than his, bed made messily and books actually stacked in neat piles. His wall is covered in pictures of him and his friends, and a girl who he must be dating, pressing a kiss to his cheek.</p>
<p>“I’m not stealing clothes from your roommate,” Stan calls back, instead sitting on the edge of Richie’s bed. He picks at the bedsheet, nose crinkling at the liquids starting to stain it. They’ll have to wash it tonight, before either of them sleep in it. If they are both sleeping in it – Richie had mentioned over skype the week before that his roommate was away for a week and there was a vacant bed if he wanted it. Stan doesn’t want it. After all these months apart it would be nice to finally sleep next to Richie again, just like they used to in Derry.</p>
<p>Richie emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed, t-shirt and shirt and fucking chinos. Stan would be lying if it didn’t do something to him, seeing Richie in the flesh again. He’s still got his toothbrush hanging from his mouth.</p>
<p>“Why not?” He says through the disgusting foam. Stan pulls a face. “I’ll wash it before he gets back. He won’t even notice anything.”</p>
<p>Stan doesn’t make a move to root through Michael’s drawers, but he doesn’t go to his own backpack either. Instead he leans back against the bed till his head rests against the wall.</p>
<p>“I thought you were in a rush to go,” Richie says.</p>
<p>Lazily, Stan pats the bed until Richie comes and sits next to him. “Not yet. Five more minutes.”</p>
<p>It’s been so long since he’s been alone with Richie and he’s not about to give it up that easily. He won’t admit that he’s missed him, missed his presence, but he has. Slowly he lets his head tilt to the right, until his hair brushes against Richie’s shoulder. The older boy shifts a little and then his arm is around Stan’s back. Neither of them mention it, but Stan is sure that neither of them move yet.</p>
<p>“This is nice,” Richie says with a low little laugh. Stan nods, head moving on the other boy’s shoulder, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure what he would say if he opened his mouth. There’s an urge to tell Richie that he’s his best friend but then – he already knows that.</p>
<p>Stan closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He can feel Richie’s body moving too, inflating and deflating with each breath. He tries to mirror the slow breaths.</p>
<p>“How was prom?” Richie asks. Stan tries to brush it off with a shrug, eyes still screwed shut. It doesn’t work. “Did you rent a tux? Did Donald cry when he saw you come down that spiral staircase? Did you go in a limo?”</p>
<p>“Shut up Richie,” Stan mumbles. He tries to regain the moment but it’s broken, so instead he sits up and rubs at his eyes. It’s only 5:13 but it feels much later. They should have been at Bill and Eddie’s ten minutes ago.</p>
<p>“How was Patty?” Richie presses on with an obnoxious smirk. Stan leans over and grabs his backpack, not wanting to think of his girlfriend back at home in this particular moment. “Did she wear the tux and you wore the dress? I bet you could rock a mermaid cut.”</p>
<p>“Shut up,” Stan responds with a scowl. He doesn’t want to think of Patty, or the way they had awkwardly kissed in the hotel room he had rented. He doesn’t want to think of how she had kissed him and he had cried. How all he could think about was Richie, all the way in New York, and the disappointment in the fact that he knows for certain that he’s gay and that one day he’ll have to tell his dad.</p>
<p>“Just asking,” Richie laughs, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Did you finally pop that cherry? Lose the golden v? I bet it was a magical night? Did you get candles and rose petals? Did you make her a mixtape, or was it more the back of a car situation?”</p>
<p>“Can you shut the fuck up Richie?” Stan finally snaps; afraid he’ll cry if the other boy keeps talking. Richie must hear the tension in his voice because he does stop. He looks for a minute like he’s about to apologise, and Stan is afraid that will make him cry too, so instead he rummages around in his backpack and pulls out the first t-shirt he finds.</p>
<p>“Stan…” Richie begins but falters one word in and goes silent.</p>
<p>Stan ignores him, standing up and tugging on the t-shirt. Richie doesn’t say anything else, so Stan goes to the dresser and pulls out a pair of odd socks. He inspects them for a second then pulls them on. One has a hole in the foot.</p>
<p>Richie stands up too, squeezing past Stan to spit into the sink and rinse off his toothbrush. He doesn’t emerge, even when the faucet stops gushing.</p>
<p>“Richie,” Stan says gently, knocking on the doorframe. He doesn’t want to ruin the time they do have together and besides, it’s not Richie’s fault. None of this is his fault. “Do you have a jumper I could borrow?”</p>
<p>Richie emerges from the bathroom. At first Stan thinks he isn’t going to say anything, but instead he shrugs. “Sure,” he says, reaching for one hung up by the door and pressing it into Stan’s hands. “You can keep it, it’s just a piece of crap I got at induction.”</p>
<p>Stan pulls it on thankfully. He wonders whether he should make some joke about not being Richie’s boyfriend, but the thought makes him feel sore. Instead he smiles at Richie, and waits for Richie to crack a smile back.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“I think Eddie forgot to pick up my razor when he, uh, when he went to get my stuff. It’s no big deal, I bought a new one, just wanted to mention it in case you stumbled across it and got… confused.”</p>
<p>Richie ghosts a hand over the stubble on his chin when he says this. Their meals are finished now, plates cleared, but the waitress hasn’t been over to clear them yet. Stan pushes a dejected salad leaf around his plate. He’s aware on some level how tired Richie must be after his flight, how the jet lag must be starting to seep into his bones, but he’s reluctant to ask for the cheque, not wanting to call time on this meal. Part of him knows this is the last time he’ll ever see Richie in this way, the last time he’ll ever be able to look at the man and know that in that moment he knows him better than anyone.</p>
<p>“It’s probably at Ben and Bev’s. Most of my stuff is still there.”</p>
<p>“I feel that,” Richie chuckles, leaning back against his chair. “Half my life is still at Eddie’s place. Didn’t want to hire a moving fan just for my crap.”</p>
<p>He says it with laughter in his voice and yet it still sounds sad, falling dead in the space between them. Stan knows what he means. His things feel so much less without Richie’s intertwined with them. He still finds himself reaching for the apron, or a certain DVD before realising it’s all the way in LA, and that it was never his in the first place – just on loan, just there for a time, but soon to be gone. He reaches for his glass of wine but finds it empty. He wishes he’d ordered a bottle.</p>
<p>“You said – when you, you know – you said that this was the way things have to be <em>for now</em>,” he stops to clear his throat. Richie’s still leant back against his chair but his face contorts uncomfortably. “You said <em>for now</em>. What does that mean? Does that mean that in the future that – that things could change again? I need to know, Richie, I need to know if I need to wait for you. I need to know if one day things can change and we can-”</p>
<p>Richie tries to interrupt him, leaning forward, voice lowered. “Stanley,” he starts, but Stan pushes on.</p>
<p>“If it’s forever I need to know Richie. I need to know whether or not to wait for you because it’s really hard. It’s really hard to wait for something that might never happen,” his voice cracks and he finds himself having to look down at his nearly empty plate. He doesn’t want to cry. He can’t cry in this restaurant, in front of Richie, not now.</p>
<p>He expects Richie to say some garbage about how they’ll always be friends and it’ll all be okay. Stan doesn’t know if he can take that.</p>
<p>“Stanley, do you like your life?” Richie says instead. His voice is low, leaning across the table, and Stan nearly misses in the restaurant din.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Your life in Georgia. Do you like it?”</p>
<p>Stan swallows thickly. He hasn’t really thought about it before, not all that much. His first few months in Georgia have been filled with this terrible home sickness that he can’t shake, but even that can’t take away from how he feels when he stands by the sea, or looks out his window first thing in the morning, or when he drives to work with the windows rolled down. No matter how much he wants to, he can’t escape the hopeful feeling in the pit of the stomach when he wakes up every day. The promise that everything will somehow be okay, and that the hurt will end.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he says, because he <em>does</em>. “Yes, I love it.”</p>
<p>Richie nods thoughtfully. “I love my life in California too. Stanley, I can’t be verging on forty and still in a long-distance relationship. I want a family, I want a life, I want a partner who I can sleep next to every single night and see every day and go for dinner with and kiss whenever I want and show off at fancy parties. I want those things for you too Stan. I want you, but I don’t want the distance and the two of you seem to be a package deal.”</p>
<p>I’ll move to California; Stan wants to say but the words sound false in his own head. He can’t move to California, can’t give up his life for Richie, no matter how much he wants to. And he can’t say it when he knows he’ll never fully mean it.</p>
<p>Stan sits back. He doesn’t feel hurt just deflated. All of this, he thinks. All of this for the problem to be so unsolvable. “So you’re saying to be together… we need to be different people?”</p>
<p>Richie laughs at that. The idea is laughable. They’ve always been different people, and yet they made it work anyway. “No. We just need to want the same things. And we don’t.”</p>
<p>“So that’s it then? It’s over? We’re done?”</p>
<p>In his head, Stan thought he would fight till the end for Richie. Thought he would storm into this restaurant with a plan and a gesture, stand on the table and declare his love. He always thought that would conquer everything, because in the movies it does – in the movies love conquers all.</p>
<p>But this isn’t a movie. Instead Richie looks at him and Stan nods, because he knows what that means and while it hurts the ache is dull. He leans over and catches the eye of a waitress. Gestures for the cheque. Then he sits back and looks at Riche, and thinks about how they came so close, in the end.</p>
<p>“For what it’s worth…” Richie cracks a wobbly smile that Stan can’t return. “I never thought it would end this way.”</p>
<p>Stan tries for a laugh which sounds like an exhale and nods. “Yeah. Me neither,”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Stan doesn’t see much when he pokes his head around the door. The examination room is a glowing yellow which stings his eyes, in comparison to the darkness of the corridor that had led him there. He’s never much cared for hospitals. They’re large, confusing mazes, even more so in the dark. He had followed one sign for five minutes before realising it was leading him in the wrong direction and he had nearly ended up in the middle of the maternity ward.</p>
<p>He’s in the right room now. He’s sure of that because Richie is sat on the middle of an uncomfortably short examination bed, back cranked up at a right angle. He doesn’t hear Stan enter, or if he does, he doesn’t react look up, too busy filling out a form tethered to a clipboard. For all Stan’s worrying, he looks fine. A little scraped, and tired, but nothing that serious. It’s reassuring to see him though, after spending the last hour pacing the waiting room, sure that Richie had obtained some serious brain damage, or lost a limb after what he had jokingly described as ‘the worlds shittiest car crash’ to the paramedics.</p>
<p>“Hey, you okay?”</p>
<p>Richie startles at the voice and looks up at Stan. He really does look okay, aside from a jagged row of stitches on his nose from where his glasses had dug in with the impact. There had been so much blood, so much more than Stan could comprehend, covering the dashboard and Richie’s hands. Odd to think how all that can be tidied up with a needle and thread. “How did you get in here?”</p>
<p>Stan sits down on the bed next to Richie, door swinging shut behind him. “Told the nurse you were my husband. If she asks you, we got married in October. It was a beautiful ceremony. You cried.”</p>
<p>The nurse had actually just taken pity on him and directed him towards the right wing at the end of her shift. He makes up the story to make Richie laugh. He doesn’t.</p>
<p>“Okay, sure,” he says instead, putting down the clipboard and taking Stan’s hand. He squeezes it tightly, a little too tight, but Stan doesn’t complain. It’s reassuring to have Richie’s hand in his again.</p>
<p>“She said you had to have stitches?”</p>
<p>“It’s no big deal,” he taps his nose lightly with his spare hand, just to the right of the three stitches the nurse had given him. He’s not wearing his glasses so has to squint to see Stan, even this close up. “I’m fine.”</p>
<p>“You look pretty rough to me.”</p>
<p>“Well you don’t look too good either,” Richie returns, slower than he usually would. “It’s three stitches. I’m fine.”</p>
<p>Stan nudges him gently with his shoulder, arms knocking together. He wants to ask Richie if he’s okay, but he doesn’t want to push it, so instead he says, “It’s okay to be shaken up. You just crashed a car,”</p>
<p>“I didn’t crash it. That asshole ran into the back of me,” Richie bites back with force. He sounds angry, but tired too. Stan moves their joined hands to his lap and squeezes reassuringly.</p>
<p>“It did look pretty badass,” he says, feeling victorious when Richie finally laughs. “You should see the cars bumper, it’s all messed up. Missing a tail light too.”</p>
<p>Richie’s face contorts like he’s in pain and Stan wonders whether he should push the call button for the nurse. He pulls his hand away and nearly stands up to get help before Richie shakes his head and grabs his hand to stop him. Stan stops, lets himself be pulled back down.</p>
<p>“I’m fine, I’m fine.”</p>
<p>Stan doesn’t make to move any further but he doesnt feel at ease either. “Is it your head? They said you might have a concussion. I can go and get a nurse, just to be sure.”</p>
<p>“Im not in pain,” Richie insists, even though he looks like he is, forehead creased and eyes squinting. “I’m not, it’s just - Shit, Stan. I’m really sorry about your car.”</p>
<p>“My car?” Stan echoes blankly. He couldn’t give a fuck about his car, and surely Richie must know this?</p>
<p>“You should never have let me drive it,” Richie laughs pathetically. He sounds sad, which is stupid really. The car is a relic of his first move to New York, and he barely even drives it. Mostly it sits rusting in their flats garage, a glaring spot on his father’s insurance policy. “You know I barely passed my test.”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t your fault,” Stan tries to reassure, tracing his thumb across the back of Richie’s hand. He’ll never get used to being able to do that. “Like you said, that asshole ran into the back of you.”</p>
<p>Richie hums in the silence, not a hum of agreement but not one of argument either. “I’m still sorry,” he says after a pause. “Can I be sorry?”</p>
<p>Stan lets out a small huff that makes Richie laugh. “Of course you can be sorry. As long as you know it’s not your fault.”</p>
<p>There’s a quietness in the examination room. The clock above the wall says it’s three in the morning and Stan feels that in his bones. They ache as he stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back on his arms. He remembers when he would stay up all night on Eddie and Bill’s balcony, drinking cheap wine and eating takeout, or up in his dorm cramming for a test in his dorm room, bent over his desk lamp. It feels like years since those days, but really, nothing has changed. He still finds himself sat next to Richie when the night ends.</p>
<p>Richie is quiet next to him, thoughtful in a way that troubles Stan. In all the years he’s known him, silence has never been in his character. Silence means brooding, and overthinking, and panicking. Stan reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from his forehead. It’s wet, with water from when the nurse cleaned the cuts there or sweat from the collision.</p>
<p>Richie blinks up at him and Stan smiles softly at him.</p>
<p>“You would’ve never crashed,” Richie says, gently like he’s trying not to break the hypnotising silence of the hospital room. “You’re too good of a driver for that.”</p>
<p>Stan laughs, an inaudible laugh, held by the quietness of the night. It’s bullshit, and he wants to tell Richie that he’s not perfect either, that he’s not the best driver and he often gets tired behind the wheel, or something equally reassuring.</p>
<p>“I crashed my car once,” he says instead. “It was my mom’s car actually.”</p>
<p>Richie blinks at him. “When?”</p>
<p>“Back in Derry,” Stan shrugs. He looks down at their hands, clasped in his lap. “It was years ago. I was picking up my prom suit from that rent-a-tux place on fifth and I pulled out too soon. Got hit by a four wheeler.”</p>
<p>He remembers the feeling of the car impacting with his, but not so much what it looked like. He must’ve closed his eyes at some point in panic. He does remember the shape of it though, the sturdy blackness as the driver’s side door had crumpled like paper against his legs. He’d been lucky to get out unscathed, the doctor had said, but he hadn’t felt lucky.</p>
<p>In truth he had wanted to do some damage. He hadn’t wanted to die, god no, though the thought had passed him by a few times across the years. He had wanted to break a leg maybe, or crunch a few ribs. Just enough to get him out of prom. Just enough to have a reason to call Richie, and tell him what had happened, and get a few precious minutes with him amongst his ever increasing schedule.</p>
<p>But instead he’d been lucky and he didn’t tell anyone it even happened, except the parking attendant at school when he surrendered his parking space for the year.</p>
<p>“You never told me that,” Richie is looking him with a curiosity Stan hadn’t expected.</p>
<p>“Well, I was fine,” he says with a shrug. “I wasn’t allowed to drive for six months and I had an ugly cut on my chin but it cleared up before prom.”</p>
<p>He had invented a cover story for it and everything, just in case Richie, or another of their friends, decided to Skype out of the blue. Fell clearing the leaves of the drive and sliced his face open on the lip of the sidewalk. None of them had called and the cover story never got used.</p>
<p>Richie shifts on the squeaky blue bed. “How is it that there’s still stuff I don’t know about you?” he says with a fondness that strikes Stan as gentle. “I thought I knew everything about you but you somehow manage to surprise me every time.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure there’s stuff I don’t know about you too.”</p>
<p>“Me? I’m an open book. Ask me anything,” Richie says, peering up at him expectantly.</p>
<p>Do you love me; Stan wants to say. Do you love me, will you keep loving me forever and never stop, because I can’t bear the idea of not being able to love and be loved by you every time I wake up?</p>
<p>It’s too hard, though, even with Richie staring up at him. Even now, after everything, he can’t ask this.</p>
<p>Instead he picks up the clipboard from the bed next to him and starts to fill it out. “I guess you’re right,” he says, glancing down at Richie between questions. “I already know everything.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“So…”</p>
<p>It’s colder than it was when he got to the restaurant. There’s a certain bite in the wind as he tightens his coat around his waist and puffs out his cheeks, as though the hotness of his breath will warm the wind around him.</p>
<p>They’re stood outside the restaurant. Richie is caught in the light from inside, a dull yellow glow that casts his face half in the shadows. He is rocking back on his heels, an action that strikes Stan as impatient. He wishes he knew what Richie was thinking now as he peers down the street and clenches his fists inside his gloves.</p>
<p>“I’ll call you,” Richie says quickly. Stan nods, knowing that Richie is trying to end things now and rightly so. Stan just wants it to be over. “Maybe you could come visit me in LA sometime?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, that’d be nice,” Stan nods, even though it’s just a line, a lie to make things easier. “We could make a group holiday of it or something, I’m sure the guys would want to visit you in your swanky new condo.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, that would be nice,” Richie agrees. A taxi screeches back and jitters to a stop. Richie leans down and waves it on, and Stan feels his heart clench with how this could be the last time he sees him do that, so confident in the city, and his own skin. “Or you could, you know, come up alone,”</p>
<p>“That would be nice too. I’d invite you to Georgia but it’s not that impressive,” he chuckles nervously. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t <em>want</em> to do this.</p>
<p>“No, no, I’d love to come,” Richie rushes to say. “Just have to see if I could get the time of work.”</p>
<p>Stan takes a step back on the sidewalk. “Of course, of course, no worries if not.”</p>
<p>“I’d love to come though,” Richie insists, and is this supposed to make things easier? Stan isn’t so sure he even wants Richie in his new home, taunting him with this grotesque mirror of domesticity. He’s not sure that if he did turn up Stan wouldn’t turn him away.</p>
<p>“I’ll call you,” Richie vows again. “You can tell me all about Patty and work and just – just stuff.”</p>
<p>“She’s a lesbian. You heard that part, right?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, but maybe she has some gay guy friends. She can set you up,” he suggests. Stan nods and pretends he doesn’t feel ill at the idea of someone else, of Richie approving of someone else, of this being it after everything-</p>
<p>“Where are you headed?” he asks, taking another step back. The air is bone chilling now, the buzz on the street dying as couples leave the restaurant and climb into taxis. “We could share a cab-”</p>
<p>Richie jerks his thumb backwards, in a vague direction. “I think I’m gonna walk, if that’s cool.”</p>
<p>“No, yeah, that’s good,” Stan nods, hugging his coat tighter to his torso until he can feel his ribs against his arms. Richie hovers for a second, hand half extending as though he may hold it out for Stan to shake, before noticing the surmounting distance between them and dropping it back to his side.</p>
<p>“I’ll see you, Stanley,” he says instead, with a certain formality. “You’re going to Bill’s wedding, right?”</p>
<p>Stan nods, working hard to swallow the lump in his throat. Is it too late, he wonders? Isn’t the final act where loves are confessed and fences are mended? Isn’t this when Harry finally got Sally and god, he hated that film when he had watched it with Richie, and here he is, hoping it may be a prophecy come to life.</p>
<p>“I’ll see you then,” Richie says.</p>
<p>“Yeah, see you,” Stan says.</p>
<p>What else is there left, after all?</p>
<p>Richie starts down the street, striding backwards in a way Stan would’ve found infuriating when they were still together. Stan waits, unsure why he’s waiting, unsure if this is really how it all ends.</p>
<p>Richie falters for a second, then raises his hand in an odd sort of way. “Bye!” he calls down the street, as though Stan is just an old friend he met in the city for dinner. Maybe one day that’s all he will be. On old friend, a photo on a page, or maybe just a funny story he tells to his kids when they ask who he used to love.</p>
<p>Stan watches him go, weaving effortlessly through the tourists, manoeuvring his bag throw the throng of a crowd.</p>
<p>In his dreams Richie stops halfway down the road, comes running back to him and kisses him right there. In his dreams Richie tells him he’s sorry, that this is wrong, that he loves him.</p>
<p>In his dreams everything is okay.</p>
<p>In real life Richie walks away from him, turns the corner and disappears.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>idk. hope u enjoyed.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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